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LOVELL S LIBRAR7. 


COMPLETE CATALOG-UE BY AUTHORS. 

Loveli/S Librabe now contains the complete writings of most of the best standard 
authors, such as Dickens, Thackeray, Eliot, Carlyle, Ruskin, Scott, Lytton, Black, etc., 
etc. 

Each number is issued in neat 12mo form, and the type will be found larger, and the 
paper better, than in any other cheap series published. 

JOHN W. LOVEIiL. COMPANY, 

P. 0. Box 1992? 14: a.nd 16 Vesey St., New York;. 


BY G. M. ADAM AND A. E. 


WETHEKALD 

846 An Algonquin Maiden 20 

BY MAX ADELER 

295 Random Shots 20 

325 Elbow Room 20 

BY GUSTAVE AIMARD 

560 The Adventurers 10 

.567 The Trail-Hunter 10 

573 Pearl of the Andes . . 10 

1011 Pirates of the Prairies 10 

1021 The Trapper’s Daughter 10 

1032 The Tiger Slayer 10 

1045 Trappers of Arkansas 10 

1052 Border Rifles 10 

1063 The Freebooters 10 

1069 The White Scalper 10 

BY MRS. ALDERDICE 

346 An Interesting Case 20 

BY MRS. ALEXANDER 

62 The Wooing O’t, 2 Parts, each 15 

99 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

209 The Executor 20 

349 Valerie’s Fate 10 

664 At Bay 10 

746 Beaton’s Bargain 20 

777 A Second Life * 20 

799 Maid, Wife, or Widow..., 10 

840 By Woman’s Wit 20 

995 Which Shall it Be ? !].....! 20 

BY F. ANSTEY 

30 Vice Versa; or, A Lesson to Fathers. . 20 

394 The Giant’s Robe 20 

453 Black Poodle, and Other Tales.. ! . . . 20 

616 The Tinted Venus 15 

755 A Fallen Idol 20 

BY T. S. ARTHUR 

496 Woman’s Trials 20 

507 The Two Wives 15 

518 Married Life .15 

538 The Ways of Providence 15 

545 Home Scenes 15 

554 Stories for Parents 15 

563 Seed-Time and Harvest 15 

568 Words for the Wise 15 

674 Stories for Young Housekeepers 15 

579 Lessons in Life I5 

682 Off-Hand Sketches I5 

686 Tried and Tempted ! . ! . 15 


BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 


419 Fairy Tales 20 

BY EDWIN ARNOLD 

436 The Light of Asia 20 

456 Pearls of the Faith 15 

472 Indian Song of Songs 10 

BY W. E. AYTOUN 

351 Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers 20 

BY ADAM BADEAU 

756 Conspiracy 25 

BY SIR SAMUEL BAKER 

206 Cast up by the Sea 20 

227 Rifle and Hound in Ceylon 20 

233 Eight Years’ Wandering in Ceylon . . 20 

BY C. W. BALESTIER 

381 A Fair Device 20 

405 Life of J. G. Blaine 20 

BY R. M. BALLANTYNE 

215 The Red Eric 20 

226 The Fire Brigade 20 

239 Erling the Bold 20 

241 Deep Down ^ 

BY S. BARING-GOULD 

878 Little Tu’penny 10 

BY GEORGE MIDDLETON BAYNE 

460 Galaski 20 

BY AUGUST BEBEL 

712 Woman .30 

BY MRS. E. BEDELL BENJAMIN 

748 Our Roman Palace 20 

BY A. BENRIMO 

470 Vic 15 

BY E. BERGER 

901 Charles Auchester 20 

BY W. BERGSOE 

77 Pillone 

BY E. BERTHET 

366 The Sergeant's Legacy 20 


BY BJORNSTJERNE BJORNSON 

3 The Happy Boy p 

4 Arne . . k 


loyell’s 

BY WALTEB BESANT 


18 They Were Married 10 

103 Let Nothing You Dismay 10 

257 All in a Garden Fair 20 

268 When the Ship Comes Home 10 

384 Dorothy Forster 20 

699 Self or Bearer 10 

842 The World Went Very Well Then . . 20 

847 The Holy Rose 10 

1002 To Call Her Mine 20 

BY WILLIAM BLACK 

40 An Adventure in Thule, etc 10 

48 A Princess of Thule 20 

82 A Daughter of Heth 20 

85 Shandon Bells 20 

93 Macleod of Dare 20 

136 Yolande 20 

142 Strange Adventures of a Phaeton, . . 20 

146 White Wings 20 

153 Sunrise, 2 Parts, each 15 

178 Madcap Violet 20 

180 Kilmeny 20 

182 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

184 Green Pastures, etc 20 

188 In Silk Attire 20 

213 The Three Feathers 20 

216 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

217 The Four MacNicols 10 

218 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P 10 

225 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

282 Monarch of Mincing Lane 20 

456 Judith Shakespeare ,..20 

584 Wise Women of Inverness 10 

678 White Heather r. 20 

958 Sabina Zembra 20 

BY MISS M. E. BRADDON 

88 The Golden Calf 2C 

104 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

214 Phantom Fortune 20 

266 Under the Red Flag 10 

444 An Ishmaelite 20 

555 Aurora Floyd 20 

588 To the Bitter End 20 

596 Dead Sea Fruit 20 

698 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

766 Vixen 20 

783 The Octoroon 20 

814 Mohawks 20 

868 One Thing Needful 20 

869 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

870 John Marchmont’s Legacj'^ 20 

871 J oshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

872 Taken at the Flood 20 

873 Asphodel 20 

877 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

878 Only a Clod 20 

879 Sir J asper’s Tenant 20 

880 Lady’s Mile 20 

881 Birds of Prey 20 

882 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

883 Rupert Godwin 20 

886 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

887 A Strange World 20 

888 Mount Royal 20 

889 Just As I Am 20 

890 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

892 Hostages to Fortune 20 

893 Fenton’s Quest 20 

894 The Cloveu Foot 20 


LIBEAET. 


BY FKANK BARRETT. 

1009 The Great Hesper 20 

BY R. D. BLACKMORE 

861 Lorna Doone, Part 1 20 

851 Lorna Doone, Part II 20 

936 Maid of Sker ... 20 

955 Cradock Nowell, Part 1 20 

955 Cradock Nowell, Part II 20 

961 Springhaven 20 

1034 Mary Anerley 20 

1035 Alice Lorraine 20 

1036 Cristowell 20 

1037 Clara Vaughan 20 

1038 Cripps the Carrier 20 

1039 Remarkable History of Sir Thomas 

Upmore 20 

1040 Erema ; or. My Father’s Sin 20 

BY LILLIE D. BLAKE 

105 Woman’s Place To-day. 20 

697 Fettered for Life 25 

BY ANNIE BRADSHAW 

716 A Crimson Stain 20 

BY CHARLOTTE BREMER 

443 Life of Fredrika Bremer 20 

BY CHARLOTTE BRONTE 

74 Jane Eyre 20 

897 Shirley..... 20 

BY RHODA BROUGHTON 

23 Second Thoughts 20 

230 Belinda 20 

781 Betty’s Visions 15 

841 Dr. Cupid 20 

1022 Good-Bye, Sweetheart 20 

1023 Red as a Rose is She 20 

1024 Cometh up as a Flower ... 20 

1025 Not Wisely but too Well 20 

1026 Nancy 20 

1027 Joan 20 

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT 
BROWNING 

421 Aurora Leigh 20 

479 Poems 35 

BY ROBERT BROWNING 

552 Selections from Poetical Works 20 

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 

443 Poems 20 

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN 

318 The New Abelard 20 

696 The Master of. the Mine 10 

BY JOHN BUNYAN 

200 The Pilgrim’s Progress. 20 

BY ROBERT BURNS 

430 Poems 20 

BY REV. JAS. S. BUSH 

113 More l^Jords about the Bible 20 

BY E. LASSETER BYNNER 

100 Nimport, 2 Parts, each 15 

102 Tritons, 2 Farts, each 15 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY 


BY THOMAS CAMPBELL 

526 Poems 20 

BY ROSA NOUCHETE CAREY 

660 For Lilias 20 

911 Not Like other Girls 20 

912 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

959 Wee Wifie 20 

960 Wooed and Married 20 

BY WM. CARLETON 

190 Willy Reilly 20 

820 Shane Fadh’s Wedding 10 

821 Larry McFarland’s Wake lO 

822 The Party Fight and Funeral 10 

823 The Midnight Maas 10 

824 Phil Parcel 10 

825 An Irish Oath 10 

826 Going to Maynooth 10 

827 Phelim O’Toole’s Courtship 10 

828 Dominick, the Poor Scholar 10 

829 NealM’alone 10 

BY THOMAS CARLYLE 

486 History of French Revolution, 2 

Parts, each 25 

494 Past and Present 20 

500 The Diamond Necklace ; and ilira- 

beau 20 

503 Chartism 20 

508 Sartor Resartus 20 

514 Early Kings of Norway 20 

520 Jean Paul Friedrich Richter 10 

522 Goethe, and Miscellaneous Essays. . .10 

525 Life of Heyne 15 

528 Voltaire and Novalis 15 

541 Heroes, and Hero-Worship 20 

546 Signs of the Times 15 

550 German Literature 15 

561 Portraits of John Knox 15 

571 Count Cagliostro, etc 15 

578 Frederick the Great, Vol. I 20 

580 “ “ “ Vol. II 20 

591 “ “ Vol. Ill 20 

610 “ “ “ Vol. IV 20 

619 “ “ “ Vol. V 20 

622 “ “ “ Vol. VI 20 

626 “ “ “ Vol. VII 20 

628 “ “ “ Vol. VIII 20 

630 Life of John Sterling 20 

633 Latter-Day Pamphlets 20 

636 Life of Schiller 20 

643 Oliver Cromwell, Vol. 1 25 

646 “ “ Vol. II 25 

649 “ “ Vol. Ill 25 

652 Characteristics and other Essays. . . 15 

656 Corn Law Rhymes and other Essays. 15 

658 Baillie the Covenanter and other Es- 
says 15 

661 Dr. Francia and other Essays 15 

BY LEWIS CARROLL 

480 Alice’s Adventures 20 

481 Through the Looking-Glass^ 20 

BY “ CAVENDISH ” 

422 Cavendish Card Essays 15 

BY CERVANTES 

417 Don Quixote 30 

BY L. W. CHAMPNEY 

119 Bourbon Lilies 20 


BY VICTOR CHERBXTLIEZ 


Samuel Brohl & Co 20 

BY BERTHA M. CLAY 

Her Mother’s Sin 20 

Dora Thorne 20 

Beyond Pardon 20 

A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

Repented at Leisure 20 

Sunshine and Roses 20 

The Earl’s Atonement 20 

A Woman’s Temptation 80 

Love Works Wonders 20 

Fair but False 10 

Between Two Sins 10 

At War with Herself 15 

Hilda 10 

Her Martyrdom 20 

Lord Lynn’s Choice 10 

The Shadow of a Sin 10 

Wedded and Parted 10 

In Cupid’s Net 10 

Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

A Gilded Sin 10 

Between Two Loves 20 

For Another’s Sin 20 

Romance of a Young Girl 20 

A Queen Amongst Women 10 

A Golden Dawn 10 

Like no Other Love 10 

A Bitter Atonement 20 

Evelyn’s Folly 20 

Set in Diamonds 20 

A Fair Mystery 20 

Thorns and Orange Blossoms 10 

Romance of a Black Veil 10 

Love’s Warfare 10 

Madolin’s Lover 20 

From Out the Gloom 20 

Which Loved Him Best 10 

A True Magdalen 20 

The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

Prince Charlie’s Daughter 10 

A Golden Heart 10 

Wife in Name Only 20 

A Woman’s Error 20 

Marjorie 20 

A Wilful Maid 20 

Lady Castlemaine’s Divorce 20 

Claribel’s Love Story 20 

Thrown on the World 20 

Under a Shadow . .20 

A Struggle for a Ring 20 

Hilary’s Folly 20 

A Haunted Life 20 

A Woman’s Love Story 20 

A Woman’s War 20 

’Twixt Smile and Tear 20 

Lady Diana’s Pride 20 

Belle of Lynn 20 

Marjorie’s Fate 20 

Sweet Cymbeline 20 

Redeemed by Love 20 

The Squire’s Darling 10 

The Mystery of Colde Fell 20 

REV. JAS. FREEMAN CLARK 

Anti-Slavery Days 20 

BY S. T. COLERIDGE 

Poems ,...30 


242 

183 

277 

287 

420 

423 

458 

466 

474 

476 

558 

593 

651 

669 

689 

692 

694 

695 

700 

701 

718 

720 

727 

730 

733 

738 

739 

740 

744 

752 

764, 

800 

801 

803 

804 

806 

807 

808 

809 

810 

811 

812 

815 

896 

922 

923 

926 

928 

929 

930 

932 

933 

934 

9()9 

984 

985 

986 

988 

989 

1007 

1012 

1013 

BY 

167 

23 


Lovell’s 

BY WILKIE COLLINS 


8 The Moonstone, Part 1 10 

9 The Moonstone, Part 11 10 

24 The New Magdalen 20 

87 Heart and Scienqe 20 

418 “I Say No” 20 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 15 

683 The Grhost’s Touch 10 

686 My Lady’s Money 10 

722 The Evil Genius 20 

839 The Guilty River 10 

957 The Dead Secret 20 

996 The Queen of Hearts .20 

1003 The Haunted Hotel 10 

BY HUGH CONWAY 

429 Called Back 15 

462 Dark Days 15 

612 Carriston’s Gift 10 

617 Paul Vargas: a Mystery 10 

631 A Family Affair 20 

667 Story of a Sculptor 10 

672 Slings and Arrows 10 

715 A Cardinal Sin 20 

746 Living or Dead 20 

760 Somebody’s Story 10 

968 Bound by a Spell 20 

BY J. FENIMORE COOPER 

6 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

53 The Spy 20 

366 The Pathfinder 20 

378 Homeward Bound 20 

441 Home as Found 20 

463 The Deerslayer. 30 

467 The Prairie 20 

471 The Pioneer 25 

484 The Two Admirals 20 

488 The Water- Witch 20 

491 The Red Rover 20 

501 The Pilot 20 

506 Wing and Wing 20 

512 Wyandotte 20 

517 Heidenmauer 20 

519 The Headsman 20 

524 The Bravo 20 

527 Lionel Lincoln 20 

529 Wept of Wish-ton-Wish 20 

532 Afloat and Ashore 20 

539 Miles Wallingford 20 

543 The Monikins 20 

548 Mercedes of Castile . . 20 

553 The Sea Lions 20 

569 The Crater 20 

562 Oak Openings 20 

570 Satanstoe 20 

676 The Chain-Bearer 20 

687 Ways of the Hour 20 

601 Precaution 20 

603 Redskins 25 

611 Jack Tier 20 

BY KINAHAN CORNWALLIS 

409 Adrift with a Vengeance .25 

BY THE COUNTESS 

1028 A Passion Flower 20 

1041 The World Between Them 20 


BY GEORGIANA M. CRAIK 

1006 A Daughter of the People. . . , .20 


LIBRARY. 


BY R. CRISWELL 

360 Grandfather Lickfchingle 20 

BY R. H. DANA, JR. 

464 Two Years before the Mast 20 

BY DANTE 

345 Dante’s Vision of HeU, Purgatory, 

and Paradise 20 

BY FLORA A. DARLING 

260 Mrs. Darling’s War Letters 20 

BY JOYCE DARRELL 

315 Winifred Power 20 

BY ALPHONSE DAUDET 

478 Tartarin of Tarascon 20 

604 Sidonie 20 

613 Jack 20 

615 The Little Good-for-Nothing 20 

645 The Nabob 25 

BY REV. C. H. DAVIES, D.D. 

453 Mystic London 20 

BY THE DEAN OF ST. PAUL’S 

431 Life of Spenser 10 

BY C. DEBANS 

475 A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing 20 

BY REV. C. F. DEEMS, D.D. 

704 Evolution 20 

BY DANIEL DEFOE 

428 Robinson Crusoe 25 

BY THOS. DE QUINCEY 

20 The Spanish Nun 10 

BY CHARLES DICKENS 

10 Oliver Twist 20 

38 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

75 Child’s History of England 20 

91 Pickwick Papers, 2 Parts, each 20 

140 The Cricket on the Hearth 10 

144 Old Curiosity Shop, 2 Parts, each. . . 15 

150 Barnaby Rudge, 2 Parts, each 15 

158 David Copperfield, 2 Parts, each 20 

170 Hard Times 20 

192 Great Expectations 20 

201 Martin Chuzzlewit, 2 Parts, each 20 

210 American Notes 20 

219 Dombey and Son, 2 Parts, each 20 

223 Little Dorrit, 2 Parts, each 20 

228 Our Mutual Friend, 2 Parts, each... 20 

231 Nicholas Nickleby, 2 Parts, each 20 

234 Pictures from Italy 10 

237 The Boy at Mugby 10 

244 Bleak House, 2 Parts, each 20 

246 Sketches of the Young Couples 10 

261 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

267 The Haunted House, etc 10 

270 The Mudf og Papers, etc 10 

273 Sketches by Boz 20 

274 A Christmas Carol, etc 15 

282 Uncommercial Traveller 20 

288 Somebody’s Luggage, etc. 10 

293 The Battle of Life, etc 10 

297 Mystery of Edwin Drood 20 

298 Reprinted Pieces 20 

302 No Thoroughfare 15 

437 Tales of Two Idle Apprentices ,10 


LOVELL’S 


BY CARL DETLEF 

27 Irene ; or, The Lonely Manor 20 

BY PROF. BOWDEN 

404 Life of Southey 10 

BY JOHN DRYDEN 

498 Poems 30 

BY DU BOISGOBEY 

1018 Condemned Door 20 

BY THE “DUCHESS” 

B8 Portia 20 

76 Molly Bawn 20 

78 Phyllis 20 

86 Monica 10 

90 Mrs. Geoffrey 20 

92 Airy Fairy Lilian 2il 

126 Loys, Lord Beresford 20 

132 Moonshine and Marguerites 10 

162 Faith and Unfaith 20 

168 Beauty’s Daughters 20 

284 Kossmoyne 20 

451 Doris 20 

477 A Week in ICillarney 10 

530 In Durance Vile 10 

618 Dick’s Sweetheart ; or, “ O Tender 

Dolores” 20 

621 A Maiden all Forlorn 10 

624 A Passive Crime 10 

721 Lady Branksmere 20 

735 A Mental Struggle 20 

737 The Haunted Chamber 10 

792 HerlWeek’s Amusement 10 

802 Lady Valworth's Diamonds 20 

BY LORD DUFFERIN 

95 Letters from High Latitudes 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part 1 20 

761 Count of Monte Cristo, Part II 20 

775 The Three Guardsmen 20 

786 Twenty Years After 20 

884 The Son of Monte Cristo, Part I 20 

884 The Son of Monte Cristo, Part II. . . 20 

885 Monte Cristo and His Wife 20 

891 Countess of Monte Cristo, Parti. ..20 

891 Countess of Monte Cristo, Part II... 20 

998 Beau Tancrede 20 

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS, JR. 

992 Camille 10 

BY MRS. ANNIE EDWARDS 

681 A Girton Girl 20 

BY GEORGE ELIOT 

56 Adam Bede, 2 Parts, each. 15 

69 Amos Barton 10 

71 Silas Marner 10 

79 Romola, 2 Parts, each 15 

149 Janet’s Repentance 10 

151 Felix Holt 20 

174 Middlemarch, 2 Parts, each 20 

195 Daniel Deronda, 2 Parts, each 20 

202 Theophrastus Such 10 

205 The Spanish Gypsy.and other Poems20 

207 The Mill on the Floss, 2 Parts, each.15 

208 Brother Jacob, etc 10 

374 Essays, and Leaves from a Note- 

Book - 20 




I.IBRARY. 

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 


203 Disarmed 15 

663 The Flower of Doom 10 

1005 Next of Kin 20 

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

373 Essays 20 

ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS. 
EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY 

348 Bunyan, by J. A. Froude 10 

407 Burke, by John Morley 10 

334 Burns, by Principal Shairp 10 

347 Byron, by Professor Nichol 10 

413 Chaucer, by Prof. A. W. Ward. ... .10 

424 Cowper, by Goldwin Smith 10 

377 Defoe, by William Minto 10 

383 Gibbon, by J. C. Morrison 10 

226 Goldsmith, by William Black 10 

369 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 

401 Johnson, by Leslie Stephen 10 

380 Locke, by Thomas Fowler 10 

392 Milton, by Mark Pattison 10 

398 Pope, by Leslie Stephen 10 

364 Scott, by R. H. Hutton 10 

361 Shelley, by J. Symouds 10 

404 Southey, by Professor Dowden 10 

431 Spenser, by the Dean of St. Paul’s. . 10 

344 Thackeray, by Anthony Trollope ... 10 

410 Wordsworth, by F. Myers 10 

BY B. L. FARJEON 

243 Gautran ; or. House of White Shad- 
ows 20 

654 Love’s Harvest 20 

856 Golden Bells 10 

874 Nine of Hearts 20 

BY HARRIET FARLEY 

473 Christmas Stories 20 

BY F. W. FARRAR, D.D. 

19 Seekers after God 20 

50 Early Days of Christianity, 2 Parts, 

each 20 

BY GEORGE MANNVILLE FENN 

1004 This Man’s Wife 20 

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET 

41 A Marriage in High Life 20 

987 Romance of a Poor Young Man .... 10 

BY FRIEDRICH, BARON DE LA 

MOTTE FOUaUE 

711 Undine 10 

BY MRS. FORRESTER 

760 Fair Women 20 

818 Once Again 20 

843 My Lord and My Lady 20 

844 Dolores 20 

850 My Hero 20 

859 Viva 20 

860 Omnia Vanitas 10 

861 Diana Carew 20 

862 From Olympus to Hades 20 

863 Rhona 20 

864 Roy and Viola 20 

865 June 20 

866 Mignon 20 

. 867 A Young Man’s Fancy 20 


LOVELL’S LIBEARY. 


BY THOMAS FOWLER 

380 Life of Locke'. 10 

BY FRANCESCA 

m The story of Ida 10 

BY R. E. FRANCILLON 

319 A Real Queen 20 

856 Golden Bells 10 

BY ALBERT FRANKLYN 

122 Ameline de Bourg 15 

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 

485 My Roses 20 

BY J. A. FROUDE 

348 Life of Bunyan 10 

BY EMILE GABORIAU 

114 Monsieur Lecoq, 2 Parts, each 20 

116 The Lerouge Case 20 

120 Other People’s Money 20 

129 In Peril of His Life 20 

138 The Gilded Clique 20 

155 Mystery of Orcival 20 

161 Promise of Marriage 10 

258 Pile No. 113 ...20 

BY HENRY GEORGE 

52 Progress and Poverty 20 

390 Land Question 10 

393 Social Problems 20 

796 Property in Land 15 

BY CHARLES GIBBON 

57 The Golden Shaft 20 

BY J. W. VON GOETHE 

342 Goethe’s Faust 20 

343 Goethe’s Poem s 20 

BY NIKOLAI V. GOGOL 

1016 Taras Bulla 20 

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

61 Vicar of Wakefield 10 

362 Plays and Poems 20 

BY MRS. GORE 

89 The Dean’s Daughter 20 

BY JAMES GRANT 

49 The Secret Despatch 20 

BY HENRI GREVILLE. 

ICOl Frankley 20 

BY CECIL GRIFFITH 

732 Victory Deane 20 

BY ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 

709 No. 99 10 

THE BROTHERS GRIMM 

221 Fairy Tale.s, Illusti-ated 20 

BY LIEUT. J. W. GUNNISON 

440 History of the Mormons 15 

BY ERNST HAECKEL 

97 India and Ceylon 20 

BY MARION HARLAND 

107 Housekeeping and Homemaking. ... 15 


BY F. W. HACKLANDER 


606 Forbidden Fruit 20 

BY H. RIDER HAGGARD 

813 King Solomon’s Mines 20 

848 She 20 

876 The Witch’s Head 20 

900 Jess 20 

941 Dawn 20 

1020 Allan Quatermain 20 

BY A. EGMONT HAKE 

371 The Story of Chinese Gordon 20 

BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 

15 L’Abbe Constantin 20 

BY THOMAS HARDY 

43 Two on a Tower 20 

157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid 10 

749 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

956 The Woodlanders 20 

964 Far from the Madding Crowd 20 

BY JOHN HARRISON AND M. 
COMPTON 

414 Over the Summer Sea 20 

BY J. B. HARWOOD 

269 One False, both Fair 20 

BY JOSEPH HATTON 

7 Clyde 20 

137 Cruel London 20 

BY NATHANIEL HAV/THORNE 

370 Twice Told Tales 20 

376 Grandfather’s Chair 20 

BY MARY CECIL HAY 

466 Under the Will 10 

566 The Arundel Motto 20 

590 Old Myddieton’s Money 20 

787 A Wicked Girl 10 

971 Nora’s Love Test 20 

972 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

973 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

974 My First Offer 10 

975 Back to the Old Home 10 

976 For Her Dear Sake 20 

977 Hidden Perils 20 

978 Victor and Vanquished 20 

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 

583 Poems 30 

BY DAVID J. HILL, LL.D. 

533 Principles and Fallacies of Social- 
ism 16 

BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 

356 Hygiene of the Brain 25 

BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 

709 Woman against Woman 20 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance 20 

BY PAXTON HOOD 

73 Life of Cromwell 16 

BY THOMAS HOOD 


511 Poems, 


LOVELL’S LIBEARY, 


BY HOBBY AND WEEMS 


36 Life of Marion 20 

BY ROBERT HOUDIN 

14 The Tricks of the Greeks . . 20 

BY ADAH M. HOWARD 

970 Against Her Will 20 

998 The Child Wife 10 


BY EDWARD HOWLAND 


742 Social Solutions, Part 1 10 

747 “ “ Part II 10 

758 “ “ Part III 10 

762 “ “ Partly 10 

765 “ “ Party 10 

774 “ “ Partyi... 10 

778 “ “ Part yil 10 

782 “ “ Partyill 10 

785 “ “ Part IX 10 

788 “ “ PartX 10 

791 “ “ Part XI 10 

795 “ “ Part XII 10 

BY MARIE HOWLAND 

634 Papa’s Own Girl 30 

BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D. 

635 Studies in Civil Service 15 

BY THOMAS HUGHES 

61 Tom Brown’s School Days 20 

186 _ Tom Brown at Oxford, 2 Parts, each . 15 

BY PROF. HUXLEY 

369 Life of Hume 10 

BY STANLEY HUNTLEY 

109 The Spoopendyke Papers 20 


BY VICTOR HUGO 


784 Les Miserables, Part 1 20 

784 “ “ Part II 20 

784 “ “ Partin 20 

BY R. H. HUTTON 

864 Life of Scott 20 


147 

198 

199 


224 

236 

249 

263 

272 

279 

281 

290 

299 

301 

305 

308 

310 

311 
314 
321 


BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

The Sketch Book 20 

Tales of a Traveller 20 

Life and yoyages of Columbus, 

Parti 20 

Life and yoyages of Columbus, 

Part II 20 

Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey. . .10 
Knickerbocker History bf New york.20 

The Crayon Papers 20 

The Alhambra 15 

Conquest of Granada 20 

Conquest of Spain 10 

Bracebridge Hall 20 

Salmagundi 20 

Astoria ^ ... 20 

Spanish yoyages 20 

A Tour on the Prairies 10 

Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each 15 

Oliver Goldsmith 20 

Captain Bonneville 20 

Moorish Chronicles 10 

Wolfert’B Roost and Miscellanies .... 10 


BY HARRIET JAY 

17 The Dark Colleen 20 

BY SAMUEL JOHNSON 

44 Rasselas 10 

BY MAURICE JOKAI 

754 A Modern Midas 20 

BY JOHN KEATS 

531 Poems 25 

BY EDWARD KELLOGG 

111 Labor and Capital 20 

BY GRACE KENNEDY 

106 Dunallan, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY JOHN P. KENNEDY 

67 Horse- Shoe Robinson, 2 Parts, each .15 

BY CHARLES KINGSLEY 

39 The Hermits 20 

64 Hypatia, 2 Parts, each 15 


BY HENRY KINGSLEY 

726 Austin Eliot 

728 The Hillyars and Burtons 

731 Leighton Court 

736 Geoffrey Hamlyn 

BY W. H. G. KINGSTON 

254 Peter the Whaler 

322 Mark Seaworth 

324 Round the World 

335 The Young Foresters 

337 Salt Water 

338 The Midshipman 

BY F. KIRBY 

454 The Golden Dog 

BY A. LA POINTE 

445 The Rival Doctors 

BY MISS MARGARET LEE 

25 Divorce 

600 A Brighton Night 

725 Dr. Wilmer’s Love 

741 Lorimer and Wife . . . 

BY VERNON LEE 

797 A Phantom Lover 

798 Prince of the Hundred Soups 

BY JULES LERMINA 

469 The Chase 

BY CHARLES LEVER 

327 Harry Lorrequer 

789 Charles O’Malley, 2 Parts, each 

794 Tom Burke of Ours, 2 Parts, each . . 

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW 

1 Hyperion 

2 Outre-Mer 

482 Poems 

BY SAMUEL LOVER 


163 The Happy Man 10 

719 Rory O’More 20 

849 Handy Andy 10 


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LOVELL^S LIBRAEY. 


BY COMMANDER LOVETT-CAM- 
ERON. 

817 The Cruise of the Black Prince. . . .20 

BY MRS. H. LOVETT-CAMERON 


927 Pure Gold 20 

BY HENRY W. LUCY 

96 Gideon Fleyce 20 

BY HENRY C. LUKENS 

131 Jets and Flashes 20 

BY EDNA LYALL 

962 Knights-Errant 20 

BY E. LYNN LYNTON 

275 lone Stewart 20 

BY LORD LYTTON 

11 The Coming Race 10 

12 Leila .10 

31 Ernest Maltravers 20 

32 The Haunted House 10 

45 Alice: A Sequel to Erne.st Maltra- 
vers 20 

55 A Strange Story 20 

59 Last Days of Pompeii 20 

81 Zanoni 20 ' 

84 Night and Morning, 2 Parts, each. .15 

117 Paul Clifford 20 

121 Lady of Lyons 10 

128 Money 10 

152 Richeli^i IG 

160 Rienzi, 2 Parts, each 15 

176 Pelham 20 

204 Eugene Aram 20 

222 The Disowned 20 

240 Kenelm Chillingly 20 

245 What Will He Do with It ? 2 I>arts, 

each 20 

247 Devereux 20 

250 The«Caxtons, 2 Parts, each 15 

253 Lucretia 20 

255 Last of the Barons, 2 Parts, each ... 15 

259 The Parisians, 2 Parts, each 20 

271 My Novel, 3 Parts, each 20 

276 Harold, 2 Parts, each 15 

289 Godolphin 20 

294 Pilgrims of the Rhine 15 

317 Pausanias 15 

BY LORD MACAULAY 

333 Lays of Ancient Rome 20 

BY KATHERINE S- MACQUOID 
898 Joan Wentworth 20 

BY E. MARLITT 

771 The Old Mam’selle’s Secret 20 

1029 Gold Elsie 20 

BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT 

212 The Privateersman 20 

BY HARRIET MARTINEAU 

353 Tales of the French Revolution 15 

354 Loom and Lugger 20 

357 Berkeley the Banker 20 

358 Homes Abroad 15 

363 For Each and For All 15 

372 Hill and Valley 15 

379 The Charmed Sea 15 

388 Life in the Wilds 15 

895 Sowers not Reapers 15 

400 Glen of the Echoes 15 ■ 


BY FLORENCE MARRYAT. 


903 The Master Passion .20 

904 A Lucky Disappointment 10 

905 Her Lord and Master 20 

906 My Own Child 20 

907 No Intentions 20 

908 Written in Fire 20 

909 A Little Stepson 10 

I 910 With Cupid’s Eyes 20 

931 Why Not? 20 

937 My Sister the Actress 20 

938 Captain Norton’s Diary 10 

939 Girls of Feversham 20 

940 The Root of all Evil 20 

912 Facing the Footlights 20 

943 Petronel 20 

944 A Star and a Heart 10 

945 Ange 20 

946 A Harvest of Wild Oats 20 

947 The Poison of Asps 10 

948 Fair-Haired Alda 20 

949 The Heir Presumptive 20 

950 Under the Lilies and Roses 20 

951 Heart of Jane Warner 20 

952 Love’s Conflict, Part 1 20 

952 Love’s Conflict, Part II 20 

953 Phyllida 20 

954 Out of His Reckoning 10 

979 Her World against a Lie 20 

990 Open Sesame 20 

991 Mad Duinaresq 20 

999 Fighting the Air 20 

BY HELEN MATHERS 

165 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

1046 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 20 

1047 Sam’s Sweetheart 20 

1048 Story of a Sin 20 

1049 Cherry Ripe 20 

1050 My Lady Green Sleeves .20 

BY A. MATHEY 

46 DukeofKandos 20 

60 The Two Duchesses 20 

BY W. S. MAYO 

76 The Berber 20 

BY j. H. McCarthy 

115 An Outline of Irish History 10 

BY JUSTIN McCarthy, m.p. 

278 Maid of Athens 20 

BY T. L. MEADE 

328 How It All Came Round 20 

BY OWEN MEREDITH 

331 Lucile 20 

BY JOHN MILTON 

389 Paradise Lost 20 

BY WILLIAM MINTO 

377 Life of Defoe 10 

BY MRS. MOLESWORTH 

1008 Marrying and Giving in Marriage . .10 

BY THOMAS MOORE 

416 LallaRookh 20 

487 Poems 40 

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407 Life of Burke 10 

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139 Pike County Polks 20 

BY ALAN MUIR 

312 Golden Girls 20 

BY LOUISA MUHLBACH 

1000 Frederick the Great and his Court, .30 

1014 The Daughter of an Empress 30 

1033 Goethe and Schiller 30 

BY MAX MULLER 

130 India : What Can It Teach Us ? 20 

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY 

197 By the Gate of the Sea 15 

758 Cynic Fortune 10 

BY F. MYERS 

410 Life of Wordsworth 10 

BY MISS MULOCK 

33 John Halifax 20 

435 Miss Tommy 15 

751 King Arthur 20 

BY FLORENCE NEELY 

564 Hand-Book for the Kitchen 20 

BY REV. R. H. NEWTON 

83 Right and Wrong Uses of the Bible . . 20 

BY JOHN NICHOL 

347 Life of Byron 10 

BY JAMES R. NICHOLS, M.D. 

375 Science at Home 20 

BY W. E. NORRIS 

108 No New Thing 20 

592 That Ten-ible Man 10 

779 My Friend Jim 10 

BY CHRISTOPHER NORTH 

439 N octes Ambrosianse 30 

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196 Altiora Peto 20 

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124 The Ladies Lindores 20 

179 The Little Pilgrim 10 

175 Sir Tom 20 

326 The Wizard’s Son 25 

368 Old Lady Mary 10 

602 Oliver’s Bride 10 

717 A Country Gentleman 20 

831 The Son of his Father 20 

920 John: a Love Story 20 

925 A Poor Gentleman 20 

994 Lucy Crof ton 10 

BY OUIDA 

112 Wanda, 2 Parts, each.. 15 

127 Under Two Flags, 2 Parts, each ! ! ! .’ 20 

387 Princess N apraxine 25 

675 A Rainy June ! i . 10 

763 Moths 20 

790 Othmar 20 

805 A House Party 10 

852 Friendship 20 

853 In Maremma 20 

854 Signa, 20 

855 Pascarel 20 


LIBRARY. 


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336 John Bull and His Island 20 

459 John Bull and His Daughters 20 

BY ALBERT K. OWEN 

655 Integral Co-operation 30 

BY LOUISA PARR 

42 Robin 20 

BY MARK PATTISON 

392 LifeofMUton 10 

BY JAMES PAYN 

187 Thicker than Water 20 

330 The Canon’s Ward 20 

659 Luck of the Darrells 20 

BY HENRY PETERSON 

1015 Pemberton 30 

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 

408 Poems 20 

426 Narrative of A. Gordon Pym 15 

432 Gold Bug, and Other Tales 15 

438 The Assignation, and Other Tales,. 15 

447 The Murders in the Rue Morgue 15 


BY WILLIAM POLE, F.R.S. 

406 The Theory of the Modern Scien- 
tific Game of Whist 15 

BY ALEXANDER POPE 


391 Homer’s Odyssey '. 20 

396 Homer’s Iliad 30 

457 Poems 30 

BY JANE PORTER 

189 Scottish Chiefs, Part 1 20 

Scottish Chiefs, Part II 20 

382 Thaddeus of Warsaw 25 

BY C. F. POST AND FRED. C. 
LEUBUCHER 

838 The George-Hewdtt Campaign 20 

BY ADELAIDE A. PROCTER 

339 Poems 20 

BY AGNES RAY 

1010 Mrs. Gregory 20 

BY CHARLES READE 

28 Singleheart and Doubleface 10 

416 A Perilous Secret 20 

759 Foul Play 20 

773 Put Yourself in his Place 20 

913 Griffith Gaunt 20 

914 A Terrible Temptation 20 

915 Very Hard Cash 20 

916 It is Never Too Late to Mend 20 

917 The Knightsbridge Mystery 10 

918 A Woman Hater .^-20 

919 Readiana 10 

BY REBECCA FERGUS REDD 

16 Freckles 20 

408 The Brierfield Tragedy 20 

BY “ RITA 

656 Dame Durden 20 

599 Like Diau’s Kiss 20 

BY SIR H. ROBERTS 

101 Harry Holbrook# ,20 


LOVELL^S LIBKARY. 


BY A. M. F. ROBINSON 

134 Aiden 15 

BY REGINA MARIA ROCHE 

411 Children of the Abbey 30 

BY BLANCHE ROOSEVELT 

837 Marked ‘ ‘ In Haste ” 20 

BY DANTE ROSSETTI 

329 Poems 20 

BY MRS. ROWSON 

159 Charlotte Temple 10 

BY JOHN RTJSKIN 

497 Sesame and Lilies 10 

505 Crown of Wild Olives 10 

510 Ethics of the Dust 10 

516 Queen of the Air 10 

521 Seven Lamps of Architecture 20 

687 Lectures on Architecture and Paint- 

ing 15 

542 Stones of Venice, 3 Vols., each 25 

565 Modern Painters, Vol. 1 20 

572 “ Vol. II 20 

577 “ “ Vol. Ill 20 

689 “ “ Vol. IV 25 

608 “ “ Vol. V 25 

598 King of the Golden River 10 

623 Unto this Last 10 

627 Munera Pulveris 15 

637 “ A Joy Forever ” 15 

639 The Pleasures of England 10 

642 The Two Paths 20 

644 Lectures on A.rt 15 

677 Aratra Pentelici 15 

650 Time and Tide 15 

665 Mornings in Florence 15 

668 St. Mark’s Rest 15 

670 Deucalion 15 

673 Art of England 15 

676 Eagle’s Nest 15 

679 “ Our Fathers Have Told Us” 15 

682 Proserpina 15 

685 Val d’Arno 15 

688 Love’s Meinie 15 

707 Fors Clavigera, Part 1 30 

708 “ “ Part II 30 

713 “ “ Part III 30 

714 “ “ Part IV 30 

BY W. CLARK RUSSELL 

123 A Sea Queen 20 

399 J ohn Holdsworth 20 

833 A Voyage to the Cape. 20 

834 J ack’s Courtship 20 

835 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

836 On the Fo’k’sle Head 20 

997 The Golden Hope 20 

BY DORA RUSSELL 

816 The Broken Seal 20 

BY GEORGE SAND 

135 The Tower of Percemont 20 

965 The Lilies of Florence 20 

BY MRS. W. A. SAVILLE 

27 Social Etiquette 15 

BY J. X. B. SAINTINE 

710 Picciola 10 


BY J. C. F. VON SCHILLER 


341 Schiller’s Poems 20 

BY MICHAEL SCOTT 

171 Tom Cringle’s Log 20 

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT 

145 Ivanhoe, 2 Parts, each 15 

359 Lady of the Lake, with Notes 20 

489 Bride of Lammermoor . . . ; 20 

490 Black Dwarf 10 

492 Castle Dangerous 15 

493 Legend of Montrose 15 

495 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

499 Heart of Mid-Lothian 30 

502 Waverley 20 

504 Fortunes of Nigel 20 

509 Peveril of the Peak ... 30 

515 The Pirate 20 

536 Poetical Works 40 

544 Redgauntlet 25 

551 Woodstock 20 

557 Count Robert of Paris 20 

569 The Abbot 20 

575 Quentin Durward 20 

581 The Talisman 20 

586 St. Ronan’s Well 20 

595 Anne of Geierstein 20 

605 Aunt Margaret’s Mirror 10 

607 Chronicles of the Canongate 15 

609 The Monastery 20 

620 Guy Mannering 20 

625 Kenilworth 25 

629 The Antiquary 20 

632 Rob Roy 20 

635 The Betrothed 20 

638 Fair Maid of Perth 20 

641 Old Mortality 20 

BY EUGENE SCRIBE 

22 Fleurette 20 

BY PRINCIPAL SHAIRP 

334 Life of Burns 10 

BY MARY W. SHELLEY 

5 Frankenstein 10 

BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 

549 Complete Poetical Works 30 

BY S. SHELLEY 

191 The Nautz Family. . . 20 

BY WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

640 The Partisan 30 

648 Mellich ampe 30 

653 The Yemassee 80 

657 Katherine Walton .30 

662 Southward Ho ! 30 

671 The Scout 30 

674 The Wigwam and Cabin 30 

677 V asconselos 30 

680 Conf ession 30 

684 W oodcraf t 30 

687 Richard Hurdis 30 

690 Guy Rivers 30 

693 Border Beagles 30 

697 The Forayers 30 

702 Charlemont 30 

703 Eutaw 30 

705 Beauchampe 30 


loyell’s libkaky, 


BY J. H. SHORTHOUSE 

832 Sir Percival 10 

BY J. P. SIMPSON 

126 Haunted Hearts 10 

BY EDITH SIMCOX 

513 Men, Women, and Lovers 20 

BY A. P. SINNETT 

924 Karma 20 

BY HAWLEY SMART 

780 Bad to Beat 10 

BY SAMUEL SMILES 

425 Self-Help 25 

BY A. SMITH 

594 A Summer in Skye 20 

BY GOLDWIN SMITH 

110 False Hopes 15 

424 Life of Cowper 10 

BY J. GREGORY SMITH 

65 Selma 15 

BY S. M. SMUCKER 

248 Life of Webster, 2 Parts, each 15 

BY F. SPIELHAGEN 

449 Quisiana 20 

BY LESLIE STEPHEN 

396 Life of Pope 10 

401 Life of Johnson 10 

BY STARKWEATHER AND 
WILSON 

461 Socialism 10 

BY STEPNIAK 

173 Underground Russia 20 

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 

767 Kidnapped 20 

768 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 

Hyde 10 

769 Prince Otto 10 

770 The Dynamiter 20 

793 New Arabian Nights 20 

■ 819 Treasure Island 20 

921 The Merry Men 20 

BY HESBA STRETTON 

729 In Prison and Out 20 

BY EUGENE SUE 

772 Mysteries of Paris, 2 Parts, each . . .20 
776 The Wandering Jew, 2 Parts, each .20 

BY DEAN SWIFT 

68 Gulliver’s Travels 20 


BY CHAS. ALGERNON SWIN- 
BURNE. 

412 Poems 20 

BY J. A. SYMONDS 

361 LifeofSheUey 10 

BY H. A. TAINE 

442 Taine’s English Literature 40 


BY NIKOLAI G. TCHERNUISH- 


COSKY . 

1017 A Vital Question 30 

BY LORD TENNYSON 

446 Poems 40 

BY W. M. THACKERAY 

141 Henry Esmond 20 

1 43 Denis D aval 20 

148 Catherine 10 

156 Lovel, the Widower 10 

164 Barry Lyndon 20 

172 Vanity Fair 30 

193 History of Pendennis, 2 Parts, each.. 20 

211 The Newcomes, 2 Parts, each 20 

220 Book of Snobs 10 

229 Paris Sketches 20 

235 Adventures of Philip, 2 Parts, each . . 15 

238 The Virginians, 2 Parts, each 20 

252 Critical Reviews, etc 10 

256 Eastern Sketches 10 

262 Fatal Boots, etc 10 

264 The Four Georges 10 

280 Fitzboodle Papers, etc 10 

283 Roundabout Papers 20 

285 A Legend of the Rhine, etc 10 

286 Cox’s Diary, etc 10 

292 Irish Sketches, etc 20 

296 Men’s Wives 10 

300 Novels by Eminent Hands 10 

303 Character Sketches, etc 10 

304 Christmas Books 20 

306 Ballads 15 

307 Yellowplush Papers 10 

309 Sketches and Travels in London. . . .10 

313 English Humorists ! . . 15 

316 Great Hoggarty Diamond 10 

320 The Rose and the Ring 10 

BY JUDGE D. P. THOMPSON 

21 The Green Moimtain Boys 20 

BY THEODORE TILTON 

94 Tempest Tossed, Part 1 20 

94 Tempest Tossed, Part II 20 

BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE 

133 Mr. Scarborough’s Family, 2 Parts, 

each 15 

251 Autobiography of Anthony Trollope.20 

344 Life of Thackeray 10 

3()7 An Old Man’s Love 15 

BY F. A. TUPPER 

895 Moonshine 20 

BY J. VAN LENNEP 

468 The Count of Talavera 20 

BY VIRGIL 

540 Poems 25 

BY JULES VERNE 

34 800 Leagues on the Amazon 10 

35 The Cryptogram 10 

154 Tour of the World in Eighty Days. .20 
166 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea . . . . 20 
185 The Mysterious Island, 3 Parts, each.15 

BY QUEEN VICTORIA 

355 More Leaves from a Life in the High- 
lands ..15 


LOVELL’S LIBEAET 


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1055 Mr. Smith 20 

1056 The History of a Week 10 

1057 The Baby’s Grandmother 20 

1058 Troublesome Daughter 20 

1059 Cousins 20 

BY GEORGE WALKER 

13 The Three Spaniards 20 

BY PROF. A. W. WARD 

413 Life of Chaucer 10 

BY F. WARDEN 

757 Doris’ Fortune 10 

980 At the World’s Mercy 10 

981 The House on the Marsh 20 

982 Deldee 20 

983 A Prince of Darkness 20 

BY SAMUEL WARREN 

035 Ten Thousand a Year, Part 1 20 

“ ‘‘ “ Part II 20 

“ “ “ Part III ....20 

BY DESHLER WELCH 

427 Life of Grover Cleveland 20 

BY E. WERNER 

614 At a High Price 20 

734 Vineta 20 

BY MRS. HENRY WOOD 

54 East Lynne 20 

902 The Mystery .20 

BY MRS. WHITCHER 

194 Widow Bedott Papers 20 

BY J. G. WHITTIER 

450 Poems 20 

BY VIOLET WHYTE 

963 Her Johnnie 20 

BY W. M. WILLIAMS 

80 Science in Short Chapters 20 


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352 Poems 20 

BY C. F. WINGATE 

830 Twilight Club Tracts 20 

BY EDMUND YATES 

723 Running the Gauntlet 20 

724 Broken to Harness 20 

BY CHARLOTTE M. YONGE 

858 A Modern Telemachus 20 

899 Love and Life 20 

BY ERNEST A. YOUNG 

666 Barbara’s Rival 20 

691 A Woman’s Honor V;20 

MISCELLANEOUS 

26 Life of Washington 20 

37 Paul and Virginia 10 

47 Baron Munchausen 10 

63 The Vendetta, by Balzac 20 

66 Margaret and her Bridesmaids 20 

72 Queen of the County 20 

98 The Gypsy Queen 20 

118 A New Lease of Life 20 

169 Beyond the Sunrise 20 

181 Whist, or Bumblepuppy? 10 

360 Modern Christianity a Civilized 

Heatheni.sm 15 

265 Plutarch’s Lives. 5 Parts, each . ^ . . . 20 

291 Famous Funny Fellows 20 

323 Life of Paul Jones 20 

332 Every-Day Cook-Book 20 

340 Clayton’s Rangers 20 

385 Swiss Family Robinson 20 

386 Childhood of the World 10 

397 Arabian Nights’ Entertainments 25 

402 How He Reached the White House. 25 

433 Wrecks in the Sea of Life 20 

434 Typhaines Abbey 25 

483 The Child Hunters 15 

857 A Wilful Young Woman 20 

966 The Story of Our Mess 20 

967 The Three Bummers 20 

1019 Soeur Louise 20 


Any number in the above list can generally be obtained from all booksellers and 
newsdealers, or when it cannot be so obtained, will be sent, free by mail, on receipt of 
price by the publishers. 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

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12 


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LOVELL’S LIBRARY 




937 My Sister the Actress, by Marryat..20 

938 Captain Norton’s Diary, by Marryat.lO 

939 The Girls of Feversham,by Marryat. 20 

940 The Boot of All Evil, by Marryat.. 20 

941 Dawn, by H. Rider Haggard 20 

942 Facing the Footlights, by Marryat.20 

943 Petronel, by Florence Marryat 20 

944 A Star and a Heart, by Marryat... 10 

945 Ange, by Florence Marryat 20 

946 A Harvest of Wild Oats, by Marryat.20 

947 The Poison of Asps, by F. Marryat.lO 

948 Fair-Haired Alda, by F. Marryat. . . 20 

949 The Heir Presumptive, by Marryat.20 

950 Under the Lilies and Roses, by 

Florence Marryat 20 

951 The Heart of Jane Warner, by 

Florence Marryat 20 

952 Love’s Conflict, by Marryat, P’t I . . 20 
Love’s Conflict, by Marryat, Ft II.. 20 

953 Phyllida, by Florence Marryat 20 

954 Out of his Reckoning, by Marryat.lO 

955 CradockNowell, byBlackmore,P’t 1.20 
Cradock Nowell, by R. D. Black- 

more, P’t H 20 

956 The Woodlanders, by Hardy 20 

957 The Dead Secret, by Wilkie Collins.20 

958 Sabina Zembra, by William Black.. 20 

959 Wee Wifie, by R. N. Carey 20 

960 Wooed and Married, by Carey 20 

961 Springhaven, by R. D. Blackmore . . 20 

962 Knight-Errant, by Edna Lyall 20 

963 Her Johnnie, by Violet Whyte 20 

964 Far from the Madding Crowd, by 

Thomas Hardy 20 

965 The Lilies of Florence, by G. Sand. 20 

966 The Story of Our Mess, TriXmne 

Prize War Stories 20 

967 The Three Bummers, Tribune Prize 

War Stories 20 

968 Bound by a Spell, by Hugh Conway,20 

969 A Woman’s War, by B, M Clay 20 

970 Against her Will, by A. M. Boward.20 

971 Nora’s Love Test, by Mary C. Hay.20 

972 The Squire’s Legacy, by M. C. Hay.20 

973 Dorothy’s Venture, by M. C, Hay. .20 

974 My First Offer, by Mary Cecil Hay. 10 

975 Back to the Old Home, by M.C.Hay.lO 

976 For Her Dear Sake, by M. C. Hay.. 20 

977 Hidden Perils, by Mary Cecil Hay. .20 

978 Victor and Vanquished, by Hay... 20 

979 Her World Against a Lie, by Flor- 

ence Marryat 20 

980 At the World’s Mercy, F. Warden.lO 


ISSUES. 


981 The House on the Marsh, by F. 

Warden 20 

982 Deldee, by F. Warden 20 

983 A Prince of Darkness, by Warden.20 

984 ’Twixt Smile and Tear, by Clay 20 

985 Lady Diana’s Pride, by B. M. Clay.20 

986 Belle of Lynn, by Bertha M. Clay . . 20 

987 Romance of a Poor Young Man, by 

Octave Feuillet 10 

988 Marjorie’s Fate, by Bertha M. Clay.20 

989 Sweet Cymbeline, by B. M. Clay. ... 20 

990 Open Sesame, by Florence Marryat.20 

991 Mad Dumaresq, by F. Marryat — 20 

992 Camille, by Alexandre Dumas, Jr.. 10 

993 The Child Wife, by A. M. Howard.lO 

994 Lucy Crofton, by Mrs. Oliphant 10 

995 Which Shall it Be ? by Mrs. Alex- 

ander 20 

996 The Queen of Hearts, by Collins. ..20 

997 The Golden Hope, by W. C. Russell. 20 

998 Beau Tancrede, by Alex. Dumas. .20 

999 Fighting the Air, by F. Marryat. . . 20 

In Press: 

1000 Frederick the Great and his Court, 


by Louisa Miihlbach 30 

1001 Frankley, by Henri Greville 20 


1H2 To Call Her Mine, by W. Besant.20 

1003 The Haunted Hotel, by W. Collins.lO 

1004 This Man's Wife, by G. M. Fenn. . 20 

1005 Next of Kin Wanted, by M. Beth- 

am-Edwards 20 

1006 A Daughter of the People, by 

Georgiana M. Craik 20 

1007 Redeemed by Love, by B. M. Clay.20 

1008 Marrying and Giving in Marriage, 

by Mrs. Moles worth 10 

1009 The Great Hesper, by F. Barrett.. 20 

1010 Mrs. Gregory, by Agnes Ray 20 

1011 Pirates of the Prairies, by Aimard.lO 

1012 The Squire’s Darling, by Clay. . . 10 

1013 The Mystery of Colde Fell, by 

Bertha M. Clay 20 

1014 The Daughter of an Empress, by 

Louisa Muhlbach 30 

1015 Pemberton, by Henry Peterson... 30 

1016 Taras Bulla, by Nikolai V. Gogol.. 20 

1017 A Vital Question, by Nikolai G. 

Tchernuishcosky 30 

1018 The Condemned Door, by F. du 

Boisgobey 20 

1019 Soeur Louise (Louise de Bruneval)20 

1020 Allan Quatermain, by Haggard... 20 


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JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

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THIS MAH’S WIFE 


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NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COIVIPANY 
14 AND 16 Vesey Street 




THIS MAN’S WIFE 


BY GEOE&E MANYILLE FENH, 


BOOK I. 

THE HEW CURATE. 


CHAPTER I. 

CHRISTIE BAYLE’S MISTAKE. 

If that hat had been in its proper place, it would have 
been perched upon a stake to scare the sparrows away from 
the young pease, but the wretched weather-beaten struct- 
ure was upon the old man’s head, matching well with his 
coat as he busied himself that pleasant morning dibbling 
in broccoli-plants with the pointed handle of an old spade. 

The soft, genial rain had fallen heavily during the night, 
thoroughly soaking the ground, which sent forth a delicious 
steaming incense quivering like visible transparent air in 
the morning sun. There had been a month’s drought, and 
flower and fruit had languislied; but on the previous even- 
ing dark clouds had gathered over the woods, swept down 
over King’s Castor, and, as Gemp said, “For twelve mor- 
tal hours the rain had poured down.” 

Old Gemp was wrong; it had not poured, but stolen 
softly from the kindly heavens, as if every fertilizing drop 
had been wrapped in liquid silver velvet, and no flower 
was beaten down, no thirsty vegetable soiled, but earth 
and plant had drunk and drunk during the long night to 
wake up refreshed ; the soil was of a rich dark hue in place 
of drab, and the birds were singing as if they meant to 
split their throats. 

Dr. Luttrell’s garden was just far enough out of the’ 
town for the birds to sing. They came so far, and no fur- 
ther. Once in a way, perhaps, some reckless young black- 
bird went as far as the elder clump behind the mill, close 
up to the streets, and hunted snails from out of the hollow 



roots, and from the ivy that hung over the stone wall by } 

the great water-tank in Thickens’ garden; but that was an / . 

exception. Only one robin and the sparrows strayed so 
' far in as that. 

/ Butin the doctor’s garden it was different. There was 

r the thick hawthorn hedge that separated it from the north 

J * \ road, a hedge kept carefully clipped, and with one tall 
stem every twelve yards that was never touched, but 
& _ allowed to grow as it pleased, and to blossom every May 

and June into almond-scented snow, as it was blooming 
r ' ^ now. Then there was the great laurel hedge fifteen feet 

rS high, on the north; the thick shrubbery about the red- 

; , bricked gabled house, and the dense ivy that covered it 

from the porch upward and over Millicent’s window, and 
^ . then crawled right up the sides to the chimney-stacks. 

:• There were plenty of places for birds, and as they were 

^ never disturbed, the doctor’s was a haven where nests 
were made, eggs laid, and young hatched, to the terrible 
• V detriment of the doctor’s fruit; but he only gave his hand- 

- some gray head a rub and laughed. 

That delicious June morning as the line was stretched 

- , over the bed that had been so long prepared, and the 

plants that had been nursed in a frame were being planted, 
the foreshortening of the old man’s figure was rather 
; strange, so strange that as he came along the road looking 

over the hedge, and taking in long breaths of delicious 
scents, the Reverend Christie Bayle, the newly- appointed 
r curate of St. Anthony’s, paused to watch the planting. 

V He was tall, slight, and pale, looking extremely youthful ; 

" in his black clerical attire ; but it was the pallor of much 

hard study, not of ill-health, for as he had come down the 
road it was with a free elastic stride, and he carried his , 

head as a man does who feels that he is young and full of J 

hope, and thinks that this world is, after all, a very beau- ■ 

tiful place. 

; But it was a delicious June morning. 

, True, but the Reverend Christie Bayle was just as light ;• 

and elastic when he walked back to his lodgings through r- 

i the rain on the previous night, and without an umbrella, 

p. ^ He had caught himself whistling, too, several times, and " 

; . checked himself, thinking that perhaps he ought to cease ; 

■; " V but somehow— it was very dark — he was thoroughly 
light-hearted, and he had the feeling that he had made a 
: poor weak old woman more restful at heart during his ' t 

i, chat with her by her bedside, and so he began whistling P 

again. 

■ He was not whistling now as he stopped short, looking 

over the hedge, watching the foreshortened figure coming 
‘ down toward him, with a leg on either side of the line", the 



<■ 






THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


5 


dibber in one hand, a bunch of broccoli plants in the other. 
The earth was soft, and the old man’s arm strong, while 
long practice had made him clever. He had no rule, only 
his eye and the line for guidance, but as he came slowly 
down the row, he left behind him, at exactly two feet dis- 
ance apart, the bright green tightly set plants. 

Whug ! went the dibber, in went a plant ; there Avas a 
quick poke or two, the soft earth was round the stem, and 
the old man Avent on till he reached the path, straightened 
himself, and began to softly rub the small of his back Avith 
the hand that held the tool. 

“Good-morning,” said the curate. 

“ Morning.” 

“Ladies at home?” 

“ No; they’ve gone up the town shopping. Won’t be 
long.” 

“ Do you think they’d mind if I were to Avait?” 

“ Mind? No. Come and have a look round,” as he en- 
tered the garden. 

“Peculiarity of the Lincolnshire folk, that they neA^er 
say s^r to their superiors,” mused the Eeverend Christie 
Bayle, as he entered the garden. “Perhaps they think 
we are not their superiors, and perhaps they are right; for 
what am I better than the old gardener?” 

“ Nice rain?” 

“Delicious! By Geo — I — ah, you haA^e a beautiful gar- 
den here.” 

The old man ga've him a droll look, and the curate’s face 
turned scarlet, for that old college expression had nearly 
slipped out. 

“ Yes, it’s a nice bit of garden, and pretty fruitful, con- 
sidering. You won’t mind my planting another roAV of 
these broccoli?” 

“Not a bit. Pray go on, and I can talk to you. Seems 
too bad though for me to be doing nothing, and you break- 
ing your back. ” 

“Oh, it Avon’t break my back; I’m used to it. Well, 
how do you like King’s Castor?” 

“Very much. The place is old and quaint, and I like 
the country. The people are a little distant at present. 
They are not all so sociable as you are.” 

“Ah, they don’t know you yet. There, that’s done. 
Now I’m going to stick those pease.” 

He thrust the dibber into the earth, kicked the soil off 
his heavy boots, and came out on to the path rubbing his 
hands and looking at them. 

“ Shake hands with you another time.” 

“ To be sure. Going to stick those pease, are you?” 

“ Yes. I’ve the sticks all ready.” 


6 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


The old man went to the top of the path, and into a 
nook where, ready sharpened, were about a dozen bundles 
of clean-looking ground-birch sticks full of twigs for the 
pea tendrils to hold on by as they climbed. 

The old fellow smiled genially, and there was something 
very pleasant in his clear, blue eyes, florid face, and thick, 
gray beard, which — a peculiarity in those days — he wore 
cut rather short, but innocent of razor. 

“ Shall I carry a bundle or .two down?” said the curate. 

“If you like.” 

The Reverend Christie Bayle did like, and he carried a 
couple of bundles down to where the pease were waiting 
their support. And then — they neither of them know how 
it happened, only that a question arose as to whether it 
was better to put in pea- sticks perpendicular or diagonal, 
the old man being in favor of the upright, the curate of 
the slope — both began sticking a row, with the result that 
before a quarter of a row was done the curate had taken 
off his black coat, hung it upon the gnarled Ripston pip- 
pin-tree, rolled up his shirt sleeves over a pair of white, 
muscular arms, and quite a race ensued. 

Four rows had been stuck, and a barrow had been 
fetched, and a couple of spades for the digging and pre- 
paring of a patch for some turnips, when, spade in hand, 
the curate paused and wiped his forehead. 

“You seem to like gardening, parson?” 

“Ido,” was the reply. “I quite revel in the smell of 
the newly-turned earth on a morning like this, only it 
makes me so terribly hungry.” 

“ Ah, yes, so it does me. Well, let’s dig this piece, and 
then you can have a mouthful of lunch with me.” 

“Thank you, no; I’ll help you dig this piece, and then I 
must go. I’ll come in another time. I want to see more 
of the garden.” 

There were about ten minutes’ steady digging, during 
which the curate showed that he was no mean hand with 
the spade, and then the old man paused for a moment to 
scrape the adherent soil from the broad blades. 

“My master will be back soon,” he said; “and then 
there’ll be some lunch; and oh! here they are 1” 

The Rev. Christie Bayle had been so intent upon lifting 
that great spadeful of black earth without crumbling, that 
he had not heard the approaching footsteps, and from be- 
hind the yew hedge that sheltered them from the flower- 
garden two ladies and a tall, handsome-looking man sud- 
denly appeared, awaking the curate to the fact that he was 
in his shirt-sleeves, digging, with his hat on a gooseberry 
bush, his coat in an apple-tree, and his well-blackened 
boots covered with soil. 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


7 


He was already flushed with his exercise. He turned of 
a deeper red now as he saw the pleasant-looking, elderly 
lady give her silvery-gray curls a shake, the younger lady 
gaze from one to the other as if astonished, and the tall, 
dark gentleman suppress a smile as he raised his eyebrows 
slightly, and seemed to be amused. 

The curate thrust his spade into the ground, bowed hur- 
riedly, took a long step and snatched his hat from the 
gooseberry bush, and began to hastily roll down his 
sleeves. 

“Oh, nevermind them,” said his companion. “Adam 
was not ashamed of his arms. Here, my dears, this is 
our new curate, Mr. Bayle, the first clergyman we’ve had 
who could use a spade. Mr. Bayle— my wife, my daughter 
Millicent, Mr. Hallam, from the bank.” 

The Eeverend Christie Bayle’s face was covered with 
dew, and he longed to beat a retreat from the presence of 
the pleasant-faced elderly lady ; to make that retreat a rout 
as he met the large, earnest gray eyes of “my daughter 
Millicent,” and saw as if through a mist that she was fair 
to see — how fair in his agitation he could not tell ; and, 
lastly, to rally and form a stubborn front as he bowed to 
the handsome, supercilious man, well dressed, perfectly at 
his ease, and evidently enjoying the parson’s confusion. 

“We are very glad you have come to see us, Mr. Bayle,” 
said the elderly lady, smiling, and shaking hands warmly. 
“ Of course we knew you soon would. And so you’ve 
been helping Dr. Luttrell.” 

“ The doctor?” thought the visitor, with a mental groan; 
“and I took him for the gardener!” 


CHAPTER H. 

SOME INTRODUCTIONS AND A LITTLE MUSIC. 

The reception had been so simple and homely that, once 
having secured his coat and donned it, the doctor’s volun- 
teer assistant felt more at his ease. His d isposition to retreat 
passed off, and in despite of all refusal, he was almost 
compelled to enter the house, Mrs. Luttrell taking pos- 
session of him to chat rather volubly about King’s Castor 
and the old vicar, while from time to time a few words 
passed with Millicent, at Avhom the visitor gazed almost in 
wonder. 

She was so different from the provincial young lady he 
had set up in his own mind as a type. Calm, almost grave 
in its aspect, her face was remarkable for its sweet self- 
contained look of intelligence, and the new curate had not 
been many minutes in her society before hQ was aware 


8 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


that he was conversing with a woman as highly cultivated 
as she was beautiful. 

Her sweet, rich voice absolutely thrilled, while her quiet 
self-possession sent a pang through him, as he felt how 
young, how awkward, and wanting in confidence he must 
seem in her eyes, which met his with a frank, friendly look 
that was indorsed during the conversation, as she easily 
and pleasantly helped him out of two or three verbal bogs 
into which he had fioundered. 

After a walk through the garden they had entered the 
house, where Mrs. Luttrell had turned suddenly upon her 
visitor to confuse him again by her sudden appeal. 

“ Did you ever see such a straw hat as that,’ Mr. Bayle?” 

“Oh, it’s an old favorite of papa’s, Mr. Bayle,” inter- 
rupted Millicent, turning to smile at the elderly gentleman, 
taking the dilapidated straw from his head to hang it upon 
one particular peg. “He would not enjoy the gardening 
so much without that.” 

The tall, handsome man left at the end of a few minutes. 
Business was his excuse. He had met the ladies, and just 
walked down with them, he told the doctor. 

“ But you’ll come in to night, Mr. Hallam? we shall ex- 
pect you,” said Mrs. Luttrell, warmly. 

“Oh, of course!” said Millicent, as “Mr. Hallam, from 
the bank,” involuntarily turned to her; and her manner 
was warm but not conscious. 

“ I shall be here,” he said, quietly; and after a quiet, 
friendly leave-taking, Christie Bayle felt relieved, and as if 
he could be a little more at his ease. 

It was not a success though, and when he in turn rose to 
go, thinking dolefully about his dirty boots as compared 
with the speckless Wellingtons of the other visitor, and 
after feeling something like a throb of pleasure at being 
warmly pressed to step in without ceremony that evening, 
he walked to his apartments in the main street, irritated 
and wroth with himself, and more dissatisfied than he had 
ever before felt in his life. 

“ I wish I had not come,” he said to himself. “I’m too 
young; and what’s worse, I feel so horribly young. That 
supercilious Mr. Hallam was laughing at me; the old lady 
treated me as if I were a boy; and Miss Luttrell ” 

He stopped thinking, for her tall, graceful presence 
seemed before him, and he felt again the touch of her cool, 
soft, white hand. 

“Yes; she talked to me as if I were a boy whom she 
wanted to cure of being shy. I am a boy, and it’s my own 
fault for not mixing more with men. 

“Bah! What an idiot I was! I might have known it 
was not the gardener. He did not talk like a servant, but 


THIS 3fAN^S WIFE. 


9 


I blundered into the idea, and went on blindfolded in my 
belief. What a ridiculous dehut I made there, to be sure, 
where I wanted to make a good impression! How can T 
profess to teach people like that when they treat me as if I 
were a boy? I can never show my face there again.” 

He felt in despair, and his self-abasement grew more bit- 
ter as the day went on. It would be folly, he thought, to 
go to the doctor’s that evening; but as the time drew near 
he altered his mind, and at last, taking a small case from 
where it rested upon a book-shelf, he thrust it into his 
pocket and started, his teeth set, his nerves strung, and his 
whole being bent upon the determination to show these 
people that lie was not the mere bashful boy they thought 
him. 


It was a deliciously soft, warm evening, and as he left 
the town behind with its few dim oil lamps, the lights that 
twinkled through the trees from the doctor’s drawing- 
room were like so many invitations to him to hurry his 
feet, and so full was his mind of one of the dwellers 
beneath that roof that, as he neared the gate, he was not 
surprised to hear Millicent’s voice, sweet, clear, and ring- 
ing. It hastened his steps. He did not know why, but it 
was as if magnetic— positively magnetic. The next mo- 
ment there was the low, deep-toned, rich utterance of a 
man’s voice— a voice that he recognized at once as that of 
Mr. Hallam, from the bank ; and if this was magnetic, it 
was from the negative pole, for Christie Bajde stopped. 

He went on again, angry, he knew not why, and the next 
minute was being introduced on the lawn to a thin, care- 
worn, middle-aged man, and a tall, bony, aquiline lady, 
as Mr. and Mrs. Trampleasure, Mrs. Luttrell’s pleasant, so- 
ciable voice being drowned almost the next moment by that 
of the bony dame, who in tones resembling those emitted 
by a brazen instrument, said, very slowly : 

“ How do you do? I saw you last Sunday. Don’t you 
think it is getting too late to stop out on the grass?” 

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Luttrell, hastily, “the grass is 
growing damp. Milly, my dear, take Mr. Hallam into the 
drawing-room.” 

The pleasant, flower- decked room, with its candles and 
old-fashioned oil lamp, seemed truly delightful to Christie 
Bayle for the next hour. He was very young, and he was 
the new arrival in King’s Castor, and consequently felt 
flattered by the many attentions he received. The doctor 
was friendly, and disposed to be jocose with allusions to 
gardening. Mr. Trampleasure, thin and languid, made his 
advances, but his questions were puzzling, as they related 
to rates of exchange and other monetary questions, regard- 
ing which the curate’s mind was a blank. 


10 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“Not a well-informed young man, my dear,” said Mr. 
Trampleasiire to his wife ; whereupon that lady looked at 
him, and Mr. Trampleasure seemed to wither away, or 
rather to shrink into a corner, where Millicent, who looked 
slightly flushed, but very quiet and self-possessed, was 
turning over some music, every piece of which had a strip 
of ribbon sewn with many stitches all up its back. 

“ Not a well-informed young man, this new curate, Milli- 
cent,” said Mr. Trampleasure, trying to sow his discordant 
seed on more genial soil. 

“Not well-informed, uncle?” said the daughter of the 
house, looking up wide-eyed and amused, “why, I thought 
him most interesting.” 

“ Oh, dear me, no, my dear. Quite ignorant of the most 
every-day matters. I just asked him ” 

“Are you going to give us some music. Miss Luttrell?” 
said a deep, rich voice behind them, and Millicent turned 
round smiling. 

“ I was looking out two of your songs, Mr. Hallam. You 
will sing something?” 

“ If you wish it,” he said, quietly, and there was nothing 
impressive in his manner. 

“ Oh, we should all be glad. Mamma is so fond of your 
songs.” 

“I must make the regular stipulation,” said Mr. Hal- 
lam, smiling. ‘ ‘ Banking people are very exacting ; they 
do nothing without being paid.” 

“You mean that I must sing as well,” said Millicent. 
“ Oh, certainly. And,” she added, eagerly, “ Mr. Bayle 
is musical. I will ask him to sing.” 

“ Yes, do,” said Hallam, with a shade of eagerness in his 
voice. “ He cannot refuse you.” 

She did not know why ; but as Millicent Luttrell heard 
these words, something like regret at her proposal crossed 
her mind, and she glanced at where Bayle was seated, 
listening to Mrs. Trampleasure, who was talking to him 
loudly — so loudly that her voice reached their ears. 

“ I should be very glad indeed, Mr. Bayle, if, when you 
call upon us, you would look through Edgar and Edmund’s 
Latin exercises. I’m quite sure that the head- master at 
the grammar-school does not pay the attention to the boys 
that he should. ” 

To wait until Mrs. Trampleasure came to the end of a 
conversational chapter Avould have been to give up the 
singing, so Millicent sat down to the dittle old-fashioned 
square piano, running her hands skillfully over the keys, 
and bringing forth harmonious sounds. But they were 
the aigue, wiry tones of the modern zither, and Christie 
Bayle bent forward as if attracted by the sweet face 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


11 


thrown up by the candles, and turned slightly toward 
Hallam, dark, handsome, and self-possessed, standing with 
one hand resting on the instrument. 

“ I don’t like music,” said Mrs. Trampleasure, in a very 
slightly subdued voice. 

‘'Indeed!” said Bayle, starting, for his thoughts were 
wandering, and an unpleasant, indefinable feeling was 
stealing over him. 

“I think it is a great waste of time,” continued Mrs. 
Trampleasure. ” Do you like it, Mr. Bayle?” 

“ Well, I must confess I am very fond of it,” he replied. 

“ But you don’t play anything,” said the lady, with quite 
a look of horror. 

“ I— I play the flute — a little,” faltered the curate. 

“Well,” said Mrs. Trampleasure, austerely, “we learn 
a great many habits when we are young, Mr. Bayle, that 
we leave off when we grow older. You are young, Mr. 
Bayle.” 

He looked up into her face as if she had wounded him, 
her words went so deeply home, and he replied, softly: 

“Yes, I’m afraid I’m very young.” 

Just then the doctor came and laid his hand upon Mrs. 
Trampleasure’s lips. 

“Silence! One table-spoonful to be taken directly. 
Husli, softly, not a word;” and he stood over his sister 
with a warning index finger held up, while in a deep, 
thrilling, barytone voice Mr. Hallam from the bank sung 
“ Treasures of the Deep.” 

A dead silence Avas preserved, and the sweet rich notes 
seemed to fill the room and float out where the dewy 
flowers were exhaling their odors on the soft night air. 
The words were poetical, the piano-forte accompaniment 
was skillfully played, and though perhaps but slightly cul- 
tivated, the voice of the singer was modulated by that 
dramatic feeling which is given but to few, so that the ex- 
pression was natural, and, Avithout troubling the com- 
poser’s marks, the song appealed to the feelings of the list- 
eners, though in different Avays. 

“Bravo! bravo!” cried Mr. Trampleasure, crossing to 
the singer. 

“He has a vei’y fine voice,” said Dr. Luttrell, in a quiet, 
subdued Avay; and his handsome face wrinkled a little as 
he glanced tOAvard the piano. 

“Yes, yes, it’s ver}^ beautiful,” said Mrs. Luttrell, fidget- 
ing a bracelet round and round, “but I Avish he Avouldn’t, 
dear; I declare it ahvays makes me feel as if I Avanted to 
cry. Ah! here’s Sir Gordon.” 

Pleasant, sweet- faced Mrs. Luttrell crossed the room to 
welcome a new arrival in the person of a remarkably Avell- 


12 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


preserved elderly gentleman, dressed with a care that told 
of his personal appearance being one of the important 
questions of his life. There was a suspicion of the curling- 
tongs about his hair, which was of a glossy black that was 
not more natural in hue than that of his carefully-arranged 
full whiskers. There was a little black patch, too, beneath 
the nether lip that matched his eyebrows, which seemed 
more regular and dark than those of gentlemen, as a rule, 
at his time of life. The lines in his face were not deep, 
but they were many, and in short he looked, from the curl 
on the top of his head, down past his high black satin stock, 
well-padded coat, pinched waist, and carefully strapped 
down trousers over his painfully small patent-leather boots, 
like one who had taken up the challenge of Time, and 
meant to fight him to the death. 

“Good-evening, Mrs. Luttrell. Ah! how do, doctor? 
My dear Miss Luttrell, I’ve been seeing your fingers in the 
dark as I waited outside.” 

“ Seeing my fingers. Sir Gordon?” 

“Yes; an idea— a fancy of mine,” said the new-comer, 
bending over the hand he took with courtly, old-fashioned 
grace. “I heard the music, and the sounds brought the 
producer before my eyes. Hallam, my dear sir, you have 
a remarkably fine voice. I’ve known men, sir, at the Lon- 
don concerts draw large incomes on worse voices than 
that.” 

“You flatter me, Sir Gordon.” 

“Not at all, sir,” said the new-comer, shortly. “ I never 
stoop to flatter any one, not even a lady; Miss Luttrell, 
do I?” 

“You never flattered me,” said Millicent, smiling. 

“Never. It’s a form of insincerity I detest. My dear 
Mrs. Luttrell, you should make your unworthy husband 
take that to heart.” 

“ Why, I ]iever flatter,” said the doctor. 

“ How dare you say so, sir, when you are always flat- 
tering your patients and preaching peace where there is no 
peace? Ah, yes, I’ve heard him, ” he said, in an undertone. 
“Introduce me.” 

The formal introduction had taken place, and the last 
comer seated himself beside the new curate. 

“ I’m very glad to meet you, Mr. Bayle. Glad to see you 
here, too, sir. Charming family this; doctor and his wife 
people to make friends. Eh! singing again? Ha! Miss 
Luttrell. Have you heard her sing?” -- 

“No, she has not sung since I have been here.” 

“ Then prepare yourself for a treat, sir. I flatter myself 
I know what singing is. It is the singing of one of our 
prima donnas without the artificiality.” 


THIS MAN\S WIFE. 18 

“I think I heard Sir Gordon say he did not flatter,” said 
Bayle, quietly. 

‘ ‘ Thank you, ’ ’ said Sir Gordon, looking round sharply ; 
“ but I shall not take the rebuke. You have not heard her 
sing. Oh, I see,” he continued, raising his gold-rimmed 
eye-glass, “ a duet.” 

There was again silence, as after the prelude Millicent’s 
voice rose clear and thrilling in the opening of one of the 
simple old duets of the day ; and as she sang with the effort- 
less ease of one to whom song was a gift, Sir Gordon bent 
forward, swaying himself slightly to the music, but only 
to stop short and watch, with a gathering uneasiness in his 
expression, the rapt earnestness of Christie Bayle as he 
seemed to drink in like some intoxicating draught the 
notes that thrilled through the room. He drew a deep 
breath, and sat up rather stiffly as she ended, and Mr. 
Hallam from the bank took up the second verse. If any- 
thing, his voi(je sounded richer and more full ; and again 
the harmony was perfect Avhen the two voices, soprano 
and barytone, blended, and rose and fell in impassioned 
strains, and then gradually died off in that soft, sweet, 
flnal chord that the subdued notes of the piano, wiry though 
they were, failed to spoil. 

“You are not fond of music?” said Sir Gordon, making 
Bayle, Avho had been still sitting back rather stiffly, and 
with his eyes closed, stare, as he replied : 

“Who? I? Oh yes, I love it !” he replied, hastily. 

“ Young! young!” said Sir Gordon to himself, as he rose 
and crossed the room to congratulate Millicent on her per- 
formance— Hallam giving way as he approached— saying 
to himself, “ I’m beginning to wish we had not engaged 
him, good a man as he is.” 

“Yes, I’m very fond of that duet,” said Millicent. 
“Excuse me. Sir Gordon, here’s Miss Heathery.” 

She crossed to the door to welcome a lady in a very 
tight evening dress of cream satin— tight, that is, in the 
body— and pinched in by a broad sash at the waist; but 
the sleeves were like two cream-colored spheres, whose 
open mouths hung down as if trying to swallow the long, 
crinkly gloves that the wearer kept drawing above her 
pointed elbows, and which then slipped down. 

It is a disrespectful comparison, but it was impossible 
to look at Miss Heathery’s face without thinking of a 
white rabbit. One of nature’s paradoxical mysteries, no 
doubt; for it was not very white, nor were her eyes pink, 
and the sausage-shaped brown curls on either side of her 
forehead, backed by a great shovel-like tortoise-shell 
comb, in nowise resembled ears; but still the fact re- 
mained, and even Christie Bayle, on being introduced to 


14 THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

the elderly bashful lady, thought of the rabbit, and act- 
ually blushed. 

“You are just in time to sing, Miss Heathery,” said 
Millicent. 

Miss Heathery could not ; but there was a good deal of 
pressing, during which the lady’s eyes rolled round plead- 
ingly from speaker to speaker, as if saying, “ Press me a 
little more, and I will.” 

“You must sing, my dear,” said Mrs. Luttrell, in a 
whisper. “ Make haste; and then Millicent’s going to ask 
Mr. Bayle, and you must play the accompaniment.” 

Miss Heatliery said, “ Oh, really!” and Sir Gordon com- 
pleted the form by offering his arm and leading the little 
lady to the piano, taking from her hands her reticule, 
made in pale blue satin to resemble a butterfly ; after that 
her gloves, which he held. 

Then, after a good deal of arrangement of large medical 
folios upon a chair to make Miss Heathery tiie proper 
height, she raised her shoulders, the left becoming a sup- 
port to her head as she lifted her chin and gazed into one 
corner of the room. 

Christie Bayle was a lover of natural history, and he said 
to himself, “How could I be so rude as to think she looked 
like a white rabbit? She is exactly like a bird.” 

It was only that a change had come Over the lady, who 
was now wonderfully bird-like, and, what was quite to 
the point, like a bird about to sing. 

She sang. 

It was a tippity-tippity little tinkling song, quite in ac- 
cordance with the wiry zither-like piano, all about “dewy 
twilight lingers,” and harps “touched by fairy fingers,” 
and appeals to some one to “meet me there, love,” et 
cetera, et cetera. 

The French say Ave are not a polite nation. We may not 
be as to some little bits of outer polish, but at heart we are, 
and never more so than at a social gathering, when some 
terrible execution has taken place under the name of mqsic. 
It was so here, for, moved by the feeling that the poor lit- 
tle woman had done her best, and would have been deeply 
wounded had she not been asked to sing, all warmly 
thanked Miss Heathery, and directly after, Christie Bayle, 
with his ears still burning from the effects of the perform- 
ance, found himself beside the fair singer, trying to talk of 
King’s Castor and its surroundings. 

“I would rather not ask him, mamma dear,” said Milli- 
cent, at the other side of the room. 

“But you had better, my dear. I know he is musical, 
and he might feel slighted.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 15 

“ Oh yes, he’s a good fellow, my dear; I like him,” said 
the doctor, bluffly. “Ask him.” 

With a curious shrinking sensation that seemed some- 
how vaguely connected with Mr. Hallam, from the bank, 
and his eagerness earlier in the evening, Millicent crossed 
to where Bayle was seated, and asked him if he would 
sing. 

” Oh no,” he said, hastily. “I have no voice !” 

“But we hear that you are musical, Mr. Bayle,” said 
Millicent, in her sweet, calm way. 

“ Oh, yes, I am. Yes, I am a little musical.” 

“Pray sing, then,” she said, now that she had taken the 
step, forgetting the diffident feeling; “we are very simple 
people here, and so glad to have a fresh recruit in our nar- 
row ranks.” 

“Yes, pray sing, Mr. Bayle; we should be so charmed.” 

“I-er-I really ” 

“Oh, but do, Mr. Bayle,” said Miss Heathery again, 
sweetly. 

“ I think you will oblige us, Mr. Bayle,” said Millicent, 
smiling ; and as their eyes met, if the request had been to 
perform the act of Marcus Curtius on foot, and with a rea- 
sonable chance of finding water at the bottom to break the 
fall, Christie Bayle would have taken the plunge. 

“Have you anything I know?” he said, despairingly. 

“I know,” cried Miss Heathery, with a sort of peck 
made in birdlike playfulness. “ Mr. Bayle can sing, ‘ They 
bid me forget thee. ’ ’ ’ 

“Full many a shaft at random sent hits,” et cetera. 
This was a chance shot, and it struck home. 

“1 think — er — perhaps, I could sing that,’' stammered 
Bayle, and then in a fit of desperation, “ I’ll try.” 

“I have it among my music, Millicent, dear. May I 
play the accompaniment?” 

Miss Heathery meant to look winning, but she made 
Bayle shiver. 

“ If you will be so good. Miss Heathery;” and the piece 
being found and spread out, Christie Bayle, perspiring far 
more profusely than when he was using the doctor’s spade, 
stood listening to the prelude, and then began to sing, 
wishing that the dead silence around had been broken up 
by a hurricane, or the loudest thunder that ever roared. 

Truth to tell it was a depressing performance of a melan- 
choly song. Bayle’ s voice was not bad, but his extreme 
nervousness paralyzed him, and the accompaniment would 
have driven the best vocalist frantic. 

It was a dismal failure, and when, in the midst of a pleas- 
ant little chorus of “Thank-yous,” Christie Bayle left the 
piano, he felt as if he had disgraced himself forever in the 


16 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


eyes of King’s Castor, above all in those of this sweetly 
calm and beautiful woman who seemed like some muse of 
classic days come back to life. 

Every one smiled kindly, and Mrs. Luttrell came over, 
called him “my dear ” in her motherly way, and thanked 
him. 

‘ ‘ Only want practice and confidence, sir, ’ ’ said the 
doctor. 

“Exactly,” said Sir Gordon; “practice, sir, and you’ll 
soon beat Hallam there. ’ ’ 

Bayle felt as if he would give anything to be able to re- 
treat; and just then he caught Mrs. Tram pleasure’s eyes as 
she signaled him to come to her side. 

“ She told me she did not like music,” he said to himself; 
and he was yielding to his fate, and going to have the cup 
of his misery filled to the brim, when he caught Hallam’ s 
eye. 

Hallam was by the chimney-piece, talking to Mr. Tram- 
pleasure about bank matters ; but that look seemed so full 
of triumphant contempt that Bayle drew his breath as if in 
pain, and turned to reach the door. 

“ It was very kind of you to sing when I asked you, Mr. 
Bayle,” said that sweet low voice that thrilled him; and he 
turned hastily, seeing again Hallam’ s sneering look, or the 
glance that he so read. 

“ I cannot sing,” he replied, with boyish petulance. “It 
was absurd to attempt it. I have only made myself ridicu- 
lous.” 

“Pray do not say that,” said Millicent, kindly, “you 
give me pain. I feel as if it is my fault, and that I had 
spoiled your evening. ” 

“ I — I have had no practice,” he faltered. 

“But you love music. You have a good voice. You 
must come and try over a few songs and duets with me.” 

He looked at her half wonderingly, and then moved by 
perhaps a youthful but natural desire to redeem himself, he 
said, hastily: 

“ I can— play a little — the flute.” 

“ But you have not brought it?” 

“ Yes,” he said, hastily. “Will you play an accompani- 
ment? Anything, say one of Henry Bishop’s songs or 
duets.” 

Millicent sighed, for she felt regret, but she concealed her 
chagrin, and said, quietly, “Certainly, Mr. Bayle;” and 
they walked together to the piano. 

“ Bravo!” cried Sir Gordon. “No one need be told that 
Mr. Bayle is an Englishman.” 

There was a rather uncomfortable silence as, more 
and more feeling pity and sympathy for their visitor, 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


17 


Millicent began to turn over a volume of bound up music, 
while with trembling hands Bayle drew his quaint box- 
wood flute with its brass kej^s and ivory mounts from its 
case. 

It was a wonderfully different instrument from one of 
those cocoa- wood or metal flutes of the present day, every 
hole of which is stopped, not with the Angers, but with 
keys. This was an old-fashioned affair, in four pieces, 
which had to be moistened at the joints when they were 
stuck together, and all this business the Keverend Christie 
Bayle went through mechanically, for his eyes were fixed 
upon the music Millicent was turning over. 

“Let’s try that,” he said, suddenly, in a voice tremulous 
with eagerness, as she turned leaf after leaf, hesitating at 
two or three songs— “Eobin Adair,” “Ye Banks and 
Braes,” and another — easy melodies, such as a flute-player 
could be expected to get through. But though she had 
given him plenty of time to choose either of these, he let 
her turn over and went on wetting the flute joints, and 
screwing them up, till she arrived at “I Know a Bank.” 

“But it is a duet,” she said, smiling at him, as an elder 
sister might have smiled ata brother she wished to encour- 
age, and who had just made another mistake. 

“Yes,” he said, hastily, “but I can take up first one 
voice and then the other, and when it comes to the duet 
part the piano will hide the want of the second voice. ’ ’ 

“ Or I can play it where necessary, ’ ’ said Millicent, who 
began to brighten up. Perhaps this was not going to be 
such a dismal failure after all. 

“ To be sure,” he said, “ if you will. There, I think that 
will do. Pray excuse me if I seem terribly nervous, ’ ’ he 
whispered. ‘ ‘ Shall we begin V ’ 

“Yes, I am ready,” said Millicent, glancing involun- 
tarily at Hallam, who was still conversing with Trampleas- 
ure, his face perfectly calm, but his eyes wearing a singu- 
lar look of triumph. 

“ One moment. Would you mind sounding D?” 

Millicent obeyed, and Bayle blew a tremulous note upon 
the flute nearly a quarter of a tone too sharp. 

This necessitated a certain amount of unscrewing and 
lengthening, which made the drops glisten on Bayle’ s fore- 
head. 

“Poor fellow!” though Millicent, “how nervous he is! 
I wish he was not going to play. ” 

“ I think that will do,” he said at last, after blowing one 
or two more tremulous notes. “ Shall we begin?” 

Millicent nodded, giving him a smile of encouragement, 
and after whispering, “ Don’t mind me, I’ll try and keep 


18 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


to your time,” she ran over the prelude, and shivered as 
the flute took up the melody and began. 

It has been said that the flute, of all instruments, most 
resembles the human voice, and to Millicent Luttrell 
it seemed to wail here piteously how it knew a bank 
whereon the wild th3une grew. Her hands were moist 
from s^^mpathy for the flutist, and she was striving to' play 
her best with the fullest cords so as to hide his weakness, 
when, as he went on, it seemed to her that Bayle was for- 
getting the presence of listeners, and growing interested 
in the beatiuful melody he plaj^ed. The notes of the flute 
became, moment by moment, more rich and round ; they 
were no longer spasmodic, beginning and ending clumsily, 
but were breathed forth softly, with a crescendo and di- 
minuendo where neces-sar^^ and so full of feeling that the 
pianist was encouraged. She, too, forgot the listeners, and, 
yielding to her enthusism, played on. The slow, measured 
strains were succeeded by the fervid runs, but she never 
wondered whether the flutist would succeed, for they were 
among them before she knew they were so near, with the 
flute seeming to trip deftly over the most difficult passages, 
without the slightest hesitation, and the audience thor- 
oughly enjoying the novel performance, till the flnal chord 
was struck, and followed b.y a hearty round of applause. 

“Oh, Mr. Bayle,” cried Millicent, looking up in his 
flushed face, “I am so glad !” 

Her brightened e^^es told him the same tale, for he had 
thoroughly won her sympathy, as Avell as the praise of all 
present, Mr. Hallam from the bank being as ready as the 
rest to thank him for so delicious a rendering of that 
charming duet. 

The rest of that evening was strange and dream-like to 
Christie Bayle. He played some more florid pieces of 
music by one Henry Bishop, and he took Millicent in to 
supper. Then, soon after, he walked home. Sir Gordon 
Bourne being his companion. 

After that he sat for some hours thinking and wondering 
how it was that while some men of his 3 ears were manly, 
and able to maintain their own, he was so boyish and 
easily upset. 

“ I’m afraid my old tutor’s right,” he said, “I want bal- 
last.” 

Perhaps that was winy when he dropped to sleep, and 
went sailing away into the sea of dreams, his voyage was 
so wild and strange. Every minute some gust of passion 
threatened to capsize his bark; but he sailed on, with his 
dreams growing more wild, the sky around still more 
strange. 

It was a restless night for Christie Ba3de, B, A, But the 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


19 


scholar of Oriel College, Oxford, was thinking as he had 
never thought before. 


CHAPTER III. 

A LITTLE BUSINESS OF THE BANK. 

“ Would you be kind enough to cash this little check for 
me, Mr. Thickens?” 

The speaker was Miss Heathery, in the morning costume 
of a plum-colored silk dress, with wide- spreading bonnet of 
the same material, ornamented with several large bows of 
broad satin ribbon, and an extremely dilapidated bird of 
paradise plume. She placed her reticule bag, also of plum 
color, but of satin, upon the broad mahogany counter of 
Dixon’s Bank, Market Place, King’s Castor, and tried to 
draw the bag open. 

This, however, was not so easy. When it was open, all 
you had to do was to pull thick silk cord strings, and it 
closed up tightly, but there was no similar plau for opening 
a lady’s reticule in the year 1818. It was then necessary 
to insert the forefingers of each hand, knuckle to knuckle, 
force them well down, and then draw, the result being an 
opening, out of which you could extract pocket-handker- 
chief, Preston salts, or purse. Thin fingers were very 
useful at such a time, and Miss Heathery’s fingers were 
thin; but she wore gloves, and the gloves of that period, 
especially those sold in provincial towns, were not of the 
delicate, second-skin nature worn by ladies now. The con- 
sequence was that hard-featured, iron-gray-haired, closely- 
shaven Mr. James Thickens in his buff waistcoat and stiff 
white cravat, had to stand for some time, with a very 
large quill pen behind his right ear, waiting till Miss 
Heathery, who was growing very hot, exclaimed : 

“ That’s it!” and drew open the bag. 

But even then the check was not immediately forthcom- 
ing, for it had to be fished for. First, there was Miss 
Heathery’s pocket-handkerchief, delicately scented with 
Uttar of roses ; then there was the pattern she was going 
to match at Crumple’s, the draper’s; then her large piece 
of orris-root got in the way, and had to be shaken on one 
side with the knitting and the ball of Berlin wool, when 
the purse was found in the far corner. 

Purses, too, in those days were not of the ” open- sesame ” 
kind popular now. The porte-monnaie was not born, and 
ladies knitted long silken hose, with a slit in the middle, 
placed ornamental side- rings and tassels thereon, and even 
went so far sometimes as to make tliese old-fashioned 
purses of beads. 

Miss Heathery’s was of netted silk, however, orange and ’’ 


20 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


blue, and through the reticulations could be seen at one 
end the metallic twinkle of coins, at the other the subdued 
tint and cornerish distentions of folded paper. 

“I’m afraid I’m keeping you, Mr. Thickens,” said the 
lady, in a sweet, bird-like chirp, as she drew one slide, and 
tried to coax the folded check along the hose, though it re- 
fused to be coaxed and obstinately stuck its elbows out at 
every opening. 

Mr. Thickens said “Not at all,” and passed his tongue 
over his dry lips, and moved his long fingers as if he were 
a kind of human actinia and these were his tentacles, in- 
voluntarily trying to get at the check. 

“That’s it!” said Miss Heathery again, with a satisfied 
sigh, and she handed the paper across the counter. 

James Thickens drew down a pair of very strongly 
framed, round-eyed, silver mounted spectacles from where 
they had been resting close to his brushed- up “Brutus,” 
and unfolded and smoothed out the slip of paper, spread- 
ing it on the counter, and bending over it so much that his 
glasses would have fallen off but for the fact that a piece of 
black silk shoestring formed a band behind. 

“ Two thirteen six,” said Mr. Thickens, looking up at the 
Iddy. 

“Yes; two pounds thirteen shillings and sixpence,” she 
replied, in token of assent. And while she was speaking 
Mr. Thickens took the big quill pen from behind his ear, 
and stood with his head on one side in an attitude of atten- 
tion till the word “sixpence” was uttered, when the pen 
was darted into a great shining leaden inkstand, and out 
again like a peck from a heron’s bill, and without damag- 
ing the finely cut point. A peculiar canceling mark was 
made upon the check, which was carried to a railed-in 
desk. A great book was opened with a bang, an entry 
made, the check dropped into a drawer, and then, in sharp, 
business-like tones, Mr. Thickens asked the question he had 
been asking for the last twenty years. 

“ How will you have it?” 

Miss Heathery chirped out her wishes, and Mr. Thickens 
counted out two sovereigns twice over, rattled them into a 
bright copper shovel, and cleverly threw them before the 
customer’s hand. A half-sovereign was treated similarly, 
but retained with the left hand till a half-crown and shil- 
ling were ready, then all these coins were thrust over to- 
gether, wuthout the copper shovel, and the transaction 
would have been ended, only that Miss Heathery said, 
sweetly: 

“ Would you mind, Mr. Tliickens, giving me some smaller 
change?” 

Mr. Thickens bowed, and taking back the half-crown, 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


21 


changed it for two sillings and a sixpence, all bearing the 
round honest countenance of King George III., upon which 
Miss Heathery beamed as she slipped the coins in the blue- 
and-orange purse. 

“ I hope Mr. Hallam is quite well, Mr. Thickens?” 

“Quite well, ma’am.” 

“ And the gold and silver fish?” 

“Quite well, ma’am,” said Mr. Thickens, a little more 
austerely. 

“I always think it so curiously droll, Mr. Thickens, 
your keeping gold and silver fish, ” simpered Miss Heathery. 
” It always seems as if the pretty things had something to 
do with the bank, and that their scales — — ” 

“ Would some day turn into sixpences and half-sover- 
eigns, eh, ma’am?” said the bank clerk, sharply. 

“Yes— exactly, Mr. Thickens.” 

“Ah, well, ma’am, it’s a very pretty idea, but that’s 
all. It isn’t solid.” 

“Exactly, Mr. Thickens. My compliments to Mr. Hal- 
lam. Good-day.” 

“ If that woman goes on making that joke about my fish 
many more times I shall kill her!” said James Thickens, 
giving his head a vicious rub. “An old idiot! I wish she’d 
keep her money at home. I believe she passes her time in 
writing checks, getting ’em changed, and paying the money 
in again, as an excuse for something to do, and for the sake 
of calling here. I’m not such an ass as to think it’s to see 
me; and as to Hallam — well, who knows? Perhaps she 
means Sir Gordon. There’s no telling where a woman may 
hang up her heart.” 

James Thickens returned to his desk after a glance down 
the main street, which looked as solemn and quiet as if 
there were no inhabitants in the place ; so still was it that 
no explanation was needed for the presence of a good deal 
of fine grass cropping up between the paving-stones. The 
houses looked clean and bright in the clear sunshine, which 
made the wonderfully twisted and floral-looking iron sup- 
port of the George sign sparkle where the green paint was 
touched up with gold. The shadows were clearly cut and 
dark, and the flowers in the George window almost glit- 
tered, so bright were their colors. An elderly lady came 
across the market-place in a red shawl, and carrying a 
pair of pattens in one hand, a dead leaf tinted gingham um- 
brella in the other, though it had not rained for a month, 
and the sky was without a cloud. 

That red shawl seemed, as it moved, to give light and 
animation for a few minutes to the place; but as it disap- 
peared round the corner by the George, the place was all 
sunshine and shadow once more. The uninhabited look 


22 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


came back, and James Thickens pushed np his spectacles 
and began to write, his pen scratching and wheezing 
over the thick hand-made paper, till a tremendous nose- 
blowing and a quick step were heard, and the clerk said 
“Gemp.” 

The next minute there was the sharp tap of a stick on 
the step, continued on the floor, and the owner of that 
name entered with his coat tightly buttoned across his 
chest. 

He was a sharp-looking man of sixty, with rather ob- 
stinate features, and, above all, an obstinate beard, which 
seemed as if it refused to be shaved, remaining in stiff, 
gray, wiry patches in corners and on prominences, as well 
as down in little ravines cut deeply in his face. His eyes, 
which were dark and sharp, twinkled and looked inquisi- 
tive, while, in addition, there was a restless, wandering ir- 
regularity in their movements, as if in turn each was try- 
ing to make out what its fellow was doing on the other side 
of that big bony nose. 

Morning, Mr. Thickens, sir, morning,” in a coffee- 
grinding tone of voice; “ I want to see the chief.” 

” Mr. Hallam? Yes; ITl see if he’s at liberty, Mr. 
Gemp.” 

“Do, Mr. Thickens, sir, do; but one moment,” he con- 
tinued, leaning over and taking the clerk by the coat. 
“Don’t you think I slight you, Mr. Thickens; not a bit, 
sir, not a bit. But when a man has a valuable deposit to 
make, eh? you see? it isn’t a matter of trusting this man 
or that; he sees the chief.” 

Mr. Gemp drew himself up, slapped the bulgy left breast 
of his buttoned -up coat, nodded sagely, and jblew his nose 
with a snort like a blast on a cow-horn, using a great blue 
cotton handkerchief with white spots. 

Mr. James Thickens passed through a glass door, covered 
on the inner side with dark-green muslin, and returned 
directly to usher the visitor into the presence of Eobert 
Hallam, the business manager of Dixon’s Bank. 

The room was neatly furnished, half office, half parlor, 
and but for a pair of crossed cutlasses over the chimney- 
piece, a bell-mouthed brass blunderbuss, and a pair of 
rusty flint-lock pistols, the place might have been the 
ordinary sitting-room of a man of quiet habits. There was 
another object, though, in one corner, which took from 
the latter aspect, this being the door of the cupboard, 
which, instead of ordinary painted panel, was of strong 
iron a couple of inches thick. 

“Morning, Mr. Hallam, sir.” 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Gemp.” 

The manager rose from his seat at the baize-covered 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


28 


table to shake hands and point to a chair, and then, resum- 
ing his own, he crossed his legs and smiled blandly as he 
waited to hear his visitor’s business. 

Mr. Gemp’s first act was to spread his blue liandkerchief 
oyer his knees, and then begin to stare about the room, 
after carefully hooking himself with his thick oak stick, 
which he passed over his neck and held with both hands 
as if he felt himself to be rather an errant kind of sheep 
who needed the restraint of the crook. 

“ Loaded?” he said, suddenly, after letting his eyes rest 
uxDon the fire-arms. 

“ Oh j^es, Mr. Gemp, they are all loaded?” replied the 
manager, smiling. “But I suppose I need not get them 
down; you are not going to make an attack?” 

“Me? attack, eh? Oh, you’re joking. That’s a good 
one. Ha! ha! ha!” 

Mr. Gemp’s laugh was not pleasant, on account of dental 
defects. It was rather boisterous, too, and his neck shook 
itself free of the crook ; but he hooked himself again, grew 
composed, and nodded once more in the direction of the 
chimney. 

“ Them swords sharp?” 

“As razors, Mr. Gemp.” 

“Are they, now? Well, that’s a blessing. Fire-proof, 
I suppose?” he added, nodding toward the safe. 

“Fire-proof, burglar proof, bank-proof, Mr. Gemp,” said 
the manager, smiling. “ Dixon’s neglects nothing for the 
safety of its customers.” 

“No, it doesn’t, does it?’’ said Mr. Gemp, holding on 
very tightly to the stick, keeping himself down, as it 
were, and safe as well. 

“No, sir; it neglects nothing.” 

“ I say,” said Mr. Gemp, leaning forward, after a glance 
over his shoulder toward the bank counter, and Mr. Thick- 
ens’ back, dimly seen through the muslin, “ does the new 
parson bank here?” 

The manager smiled, and looked very hard at the bulge 
in his visitor’s breast-pocket, a look which involuntarily 
made the old man change the position of his hooked stick 
by bringing it down across his breast, as if to protect the 
contents. 

“Now, my dear Mr. Gemp, you do not expect an an- 
swer to that question. Do you suppose I have ever told 
anybody that you have been here three times to ask me 
whether Dixon’s would advance you a hundred pounds at 
five per cent. ?” 

“On good security, eh?” interposed the old man, 
sharply ; ‘ ‘ only on good security. ’ ’ 


534 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ Exactly, my dear sir. Why, you don’t suppose we 
make advances without?” 

“No, of course not, eh? not to anybody, eh, Mr. 
Hallam?” said the old man, eagerly. “You could not 
oblige me now with a hundred, say at seven and a half? 
I’m a safe man, you know. Say at seven and a half per 
cent, on my note of hand. You wouldn’t, would you?” 

“ No, Mr. Gemp, nor yet at ten per cent. Dixon is not 
a usurer, sir. I can let you have a hundred, sir, any time 
you like, upon good security, deeds or the like, but not 
without. ’ ’ 

“ Ha! you are particular. Good way of doing business, 
sir. Hey, but I like you to be strict.” 

“It is the only safe way of conducting business, Mr. 
Gem'p.” 

“ I say, though— oh, you are close!— close as a cash-box, 
Mr. Hallam, sir; but what do you think of the new par- 
son?” 

“Quiet, pleasant, gentlemanly young man, Mr. Gemp.” 

“Yes, yes,” cried the visitor, hurting himself by using 
his crook quite violently, and getting it back round his 
neck; “but a mere boy, sir, a mere boy. He’s driven me 
away. I’m not going to church to hear him while there’s 
a chapel. I want to know what the bishop was a- thinking 
about.” 

“Ah! but he’s a scholar and a gentleman, Mr. Gemp,” 
said the manager, blandly. 

“Tchuck! so was the young doctor who set up and only 
lasted a year, If you were ill, sir, you wouldn’t have gone 
to he; you’d have gone to Dr. Luttrell. If I’ve got valler- 
able deeds to deposit, I don’t go to some young clever- 
shakes who sets up in business and calls himself a banker, 
I come to Dixon’s.” 

“ And so you have some valuable deeds you want us 
to take care of for you, Mr. Gemp?” said the manager, 
sharply. 

“Eh, I didn’t say so, did I?” 

“Yes; and you want a hundred pounds. Shall I look at 
the deeds?” 

Mr. Gemp brought his oaken crook down over his breast, 
and his quick, shifty eyes turned from the manger to the 
lethal weapons over the chimney, then to the safe, then to 
the bank, mid Mr. Thickens’ back. 

“ I say,” he said at last, “aren’t you scared about being 
robbed?” ^ 

“Robbed! oh dear, no. Come, Mr. Gemp, I must bring 
you to the point. Let me look at the deeds you have in 
your pocket; perhaps there will be no need to send them 
to our solicitor. A hundred pounds, didn’t you say?” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


25 


The old man hesitated, and looked about suspiciously for 
a few moments before meeting the manager’s eyes. Then 
he succumbed before the firm, keen, searching look. 

“Yes,” he said, slowly, “I said a hundred pounds, but 
I don’t want no hundred pounds. I want you ” 

He paused for a few moments with his hands at his 
breast, as if to take a long breath, and then, as if by a tre- 
mendous wrench, he mastered his fear and suspicion. 

“ I want you to take care of these for me.” 

He tore open his breast and brought out quickly a couple 
of dirty yellow parchments and some slips of paper, roughly 
bound in a little leather folio. 

The manager stretched his hand across the table and 
took hold of the parchments; but the old man held on by 
one corjier for a few moments till Hallam raised his eye- 
brows and smiled, when the visitor uttered a deep sigh, 
and thrust parchments and little folio hastily from him. 

“Lock ’em up in yonder iron safe,” he said, hoarsely, 
taking up his blue handkerchief to wipe his brow. “It’s 
open now, but you’ll keep it locked, won’t you?” 

“The deeds will be safe, Mr. Gemp,” said the manager, 
coolly throwing open the parchment. “Ah! I see; the 
conveyances to a row of certain messuages.” 

“Yes, sir; row of houses, Gemp’s Terrace, all my own, 
sir; not a penny on ’em.” 

“And these? Ah, I see, bank- warrants. Quite right, my 
dear sir, they will be safe. And you do not need an ad- 
vance?” 

• “ Tchuck I what should I want with an advance. There’s 
a good fifteen hundred pound there — all my own. Now you 
give me a writing, saying you’ve got ’em to hold for me, 
and that will do.” 

The manager smiled as he wrote out the document, while 
Mr. Gemp, who seemed as much relieved as if he had been 
eased of an aching tooth, rose to make a closer inspection 
of the loaded pistols and the bell- mouthed brass blunder- 
buss, all of which he tapped gently in turn with the hook 
of his stick. 

“ There you are, Mr. Gemp,” said the manager, smiling. 
‘ ‘ Now you can go home and feel at rest, for your deeds and 
warrants will be secure.” 

“Yes, sir, to be sure; that’s the way,” said the old man, 
hastily reading the memorandum, and then placing it in a 
very old leather pocketbook; “but if you wouldn’t mind, 
sir, Mr. Hallam, sir, I should like to see you lock them all 
in yonder.” 

‘‘Well, then, you shall,” said the manager, good-humor- 
edly; and taking up the packets, he tied them together 
with some green ferret, swung open the heavy door, 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


2G 

which creaked upon its pivots, stepped inside, turned a key 
with a rattle, and opened a large iron chest, into Ayhich he 
threw the deeds ; shut the lid with a clang, locked it osten- 
tatiously, took out the key, backed out, and then closed 
and locked the great door of the safe. 

“There, Mr. Gemp; I think you’ll find they are secure 
now.” 

“Safe! safe as the bank!” said the old man, with an ad- 
miring smile, as, with a sigh of relief, he picked up his old 
rough beaver hat from the floor, stuck it on rather side- 
wise, and, with a short “ good-morning,” stamped out, tap- 
ping the floor as he went. 

“Good-morning, Mr. Thickens, sir,” he said pausing at 
the outer door to look back over his shoulder at the clerk. 
“ I’ve done my bit o’ business with the manager. It’s all 
right.” 

“Good-morning, Mr. Gemp,” said Thickens, quietly; 
and then to himself, as the tap of the stick was heard 
going down the street, “An important old idiot!” 

Several little bits of business were transacted, and then, 
according to routine, the manager came behind the counter 
to relieve his lieutenant, who put on his hat and went to 
his dinner. 

During his absence the manager took his place at his 
subordinate’s desk, and was very busy making a few cal- 
culations, after divers references to a copy of yesterday’s 
Times, which came regularly by coach. 

These calculations made him thoughtful, and he was in 
the middle of one when his face changed, and turned of a 
strange waxen hue, but he recovered himself directly. 

“ Might have expected it, ” he said, softly; and he went 
on writing as some one entered the bank. 

The visitor was a thin, dejected-looking youth of about 
two-and-twenty, shabbily dressed in clothes that did not 
fit him. His face was a sickly pallor, as if he had just 
risen from an invalid couch, an idea strengthened by the 
extremely shortly-cut hair, whose deficiency was made the 
more manifest by his wearing a hat a full size too large. 
This was drawn down closely over his forehead, his pressed- 
out ears acting as brackets to keep it from going lower 
still. 

He was a tamed-down, feeble-looking being, but the 
spirit was not all gone; for, as he came down the street, 
with the genial friendliness of all dogs toward one who 
seems to be a stranger and down in the world. Miss Heath- 
ery’s fat, ill-conditioned terrier, that she pampered under 
the belief that it was a dog of good breed, being in an evil 
temper consequent upon not having been taken for a walk 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 21 

by its mistress, rushed out baying, barking, and snapping 
at the stranger’s heels. 

“Get out, will you?” he shouted; but the dog barked 
the more, and the stranger looked as if about to run. In 
fact, he did run a few yards, but as the dog followed he 
caught up a flower-pot from a handy window-sill— every 
one had flower-pots at King’s Castor — and hurled it at Miss 
Heathery’s dog. 

There was a yell, a crash, and an explosion as if of a 
shell; Miss Heathery’s dog fled, and, without waiting to 
encounter the owner of the flower-pot, the stranger hurried 
round the corner, and after an inquiry or two, made for 
the bank. 

“ Vicious little beast ! Wish I’d killed it,” he grumbled, 
giving the hat a hoist behind which necessitated another 
in front, and then the equilibrium adjusting at the sides. 

‘ ‘ W onder people keep dogs, ’ ’ he continued. ‘ ‘ A nuisance. 
Wish I was a dog— somebody’s dog, and well fed. Lead a 
regular dog’s life, worse than a dog’s life, and get none of 
the bones. Perhaps I shall, though, now.” 

The young man looked anything but a bank customer, 
but he did not hesitate. Merely stopping to give his coat 
a drag down, and then, tilting his hat slightly, he entered 
with a swagger, and walked up to the broad counter. 
Upon this he rested his gloveless hand, an act which seemed 
to give a little more steadiness to his weak frame. 

“Eob,” he said. 

The manager raised his head with an affected start. 

“ Oh, you don’t know me, eh?” said the visitor. “Well, 
I s’ pose I am a bit changed.” 

“ Know you? You wish to see me?” said Hallam, coolly. 

“Yes, Mr. Eobert Hallam ; I’ve comedown from London 
on purpose. I couldn’t come before,” he added, mean- 
ingly, “but now I want to have a talk with you.” 

‘ ‘ Stephen Crellock ! W1 ly, you are changed. ’ ’ 

“Yes, as aforesaid.” 

“ Well, sir, what is it you want with me?” said the man- 
ager, coldly. 

“What do I want with you, eh? Oh, come, that’s rich! 
You’re a lucky one, you are. I go to prison, and you get 
made manager down here. Ah ! you see I know all about 
it.” 

“ I do not understand you, sir.” 

“Then I’ll tell you, my fine fellow. Some men never 
get found out, some do; that’s the difference between us 
two. I’ve gone to the wall— inside it, ” he added, with a 
sickly grin. “You’ve got to be quite a gentleman. But 
they’ll find you out some day.” 

“ Well, sir, what is this to lead up to?” said Hallam. 


98 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ Oh! I say, tlioigh, Rob Hallam, this is too rich. Man- 
ager here, and going, they say, to marry the prettiest girl 
in the place.” Hallam started, in spite of his self-com- 
mand. “ And I suppose I shall be asked to the wedding, 
sha’n’t I?” 

“ Will you be so good as to explain what is the object of 
this visit?” said Hallam, coldly. 

“ Why, can’t you see? I’ve come to the bank because I 
want some money. There, you need not look like that, my 
lad. It’s my turn now, and you’ve got to put things a bit 
straight for me, after what I suffered sooner than speak. ’ ’ 

“ Do you mean you have come here to insult me and 
make me send for a constable?” cried Hallam. 

“Yes, if you like,” said the young man, leaning for- 
ward, and gazing full into the manager’s face; “ send for 
one if you like. But you don’t like, Robert Hallam. 
There, I’m a man of few v/ords. I’ve suffered a deal just 
through being true to my mate, and now you’ve got to 
make it up to me.” 

“You scoun ” 

“Sh! That’ll do. Just please yourself, my fine fellow ; 
only, if you don’t play fair toward the man who let things 
go against him without a word, I shall just go round the 
town and say ” 

“ Silence, you scoundrel!” cried Hallam, fiercely; and he 
caught his unpleasant visitor by the arm. 

Just then James Thickens entered, as quietly as a shadow, 
taking everything in at a glance, but without evincing any 
surprise. 

“Think yourself lucky, sir,” continued Hallam, aloud, 
“ that I do not have you locked up. Mr. Thickens, see this 
man off the premises.” 

Then, in a whisper that his visitor alone could hear, and 
with a meaning look : 

“ Be quiet and go. Come to my rooms to-night.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

DRAWING A dog’s TEETH. 

“I THINK that’s all, Mr. Hallam, sir,” said Mrs. Pinet, 
looking plump, smiling, and contented, as she ran her eyes 
over the tea-table in the bank-manager’s comfortably fur- 
nished room— “teapot, cream, salt, pepper, butter, bread,” 
she went on below her breath in rapid enumeration— “ why, 
bless my heart, I didn’t bring the sauce!” 

“Yes, that’s all, Mrs. Pinet, said the manager, in his 
gravely polite manner. 

“But, begging your pardon, it is not, sir; I forgot the 
sauce.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


29 


“Oh! never mind that to-night.” 

“ If you’ll excuse me, sir, I would rather,” said plump, 
pleasant-faced Mrs. Pinet, who supplemented a small in- 
come by letting apartments; and before she could be 
checked she hurried out, to return at the end of a few min- 
utes bearing a small round bottle. 

“ And King of Oude,” said the little woman. “ Shall I 
take the cover, sir?” 

“If you please, Mrs. Pinet.” 

“Which it’s a pleasure to wait upon such a thorough 
gentleman,” said Mrs. Pinet to herself, as she trotted back 
to her own region, leaving Hallam gazing down at the 
'homely, pleasant meal. 

He threw himself into a chair, poured out a[cup of the tea, 
cooled it by the addition of some water from a bottle on a 
stand, and drank it hastily. Then, sitting back, he 
seemed to be thinking deeply, and finally drew up to the 
table, but turned from the food in disgust. 

“ Pah!” he ejaculated; but returned to his chair, pulled 
the loaf in half, and then cut off two thick slices, hacked 
the meat from the bones of two hot steaming chops, and 
took a pat of the butter to lay upon one of the slices of 
bread. This done his eye wandered round the room for 
a moment or two, and he rose and hastily caught up a 
newspaper, rolled the bread and meat therein, and placed 
the packet on a shelf before pouring out a portion of ^^ne 
tea through the window and then giving the slop-basin and 
cup the appearance of having been used. This done he sat 
back in his chair to think, and remained so for quite half 
an hour, when Mrs. Pinet came with an announcement for 
which he was quite prepared. 

“A strange man, sir,” said the landlady, looking 
troubled and smoothing down her apron— “a strange 
young man, sir. I’m afraid, sir ” 

“Afraid, Mrs. Pinet?” 

“I mean, sir, I’m afraid he’s a tramp, sir; but he said 
you told him to come.” 

“I’m afraid, too, that he is "a tramp, Mrs. Pinet — poor 
fellow ; but it’s quite right, I did tell him to come. You 
can show him in.” 

“ In — in here, sir?” 

“Yes, Mrs. Pinet. He has been unfortunate, poor 
fellow, and has come to ask for help.” 

Mrs. Pinet sighed, mentally declared that Mr. Hallam 
was a true gentleman, and introduced shabby, broken- 
down, and dejected Stephen Crellock. 

Hallam did not move or raise his eyes, while the visitor 
gave a quick, furtive look round at all in the room, and 
Mrs. Pinet’s departing footsteps sounded quite loud. Then 


yO THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

a door was heard to close, and Hallam turned fiercely upon 
his visitor. 

“Now, you scoundrel— you miserable jail-bird, what do 
you mean by coming to me?” 

“ Mean by coming? I mean you to do things right. If 
you’d had your dues you’d have been where I was ; only you 
played monkey and made me cat. ’ ’ 

“What!” 

“And I had my paws burned while you got the chest- 
nuts.” 

“ You scoundrel!” cried Hallam, rushing to the fireplace 
and ringing sharply, “I’ll have the constable and put a 
stop to this.” 

“No, no, no; don’t, don’t, Rob! I’ll do anything you 
like; I won’t say anything,” gasped the visitor, piteously, 
“ only don’t send for the constable.” 

“ Indeed, but I will,” cried Hallam, fiercely, as he walked 
to the door ; but his visitor made quite a leap, fell at his 
feet, and clung to his legs. 

“No, no; don’t, don’t!” he cried, hoarsely, and Hallam 
shook him off, opened the door, and called out : 

“Never mind now; I’ll ring in a few minutes.” 

He closed the door and stood scowling at his visitor. 

“ I did not think you’d be so hard on a poor fellow when 
he was down, Hallam,” he whimpered; “ I didn’t, ’pon my 
honor.” 

“Your honor! you dog, j^ou jail- bird!” cried Hallam, in 
a low, angry voice. “How dare you come down and in- 
sult me?” 

“I— thought you’d help me, that you’d lend your old 
friend a hand now you’re so well off, while I am in a state 
like this.” 

“ And did you come in the right way, you dog, bullying 
and threatening me, thinking to frighten me, just as if you 
could find a soul to take any notice of a word such a black- 
guard as you would say? But there, I’ve no time to waste; 
I’ve done wrong in bringing you here. Go and tell every- 
body in the town what you please, how I was in the same 
bank with you in London, and you were given into cus- 
tody for embezzlement, and at your trial received for sen- 
tence two years’ imprisonment.” 

“ Yes, when, if I had been a coward and spoken out — — ” 

Hallam made a move toward him, when the poor, weak, 
broken-down wretch cowered lower. 

“Don't, Rob! don’t, old man,” he cried, piteously; “I’ll 
never say a word. I’ll never open my lips. You know I 
wouldn’t be such a coward, bad as I am, But you will 
help a fellow, won’t you?” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


31 

“ Help you? What, have you come to me for blackmail? 
Why should I help you?” 

“Because we were old friends, Hallam. Because I al- 
ways looked up to you, and did what you told me; and 
you don’t know what it has been, Rob, you don’t, indeed ! 
I used to be a strong fellow, but this two years have 
brought me down till I’m as thin and weak as you see me. 
I’m like a great girl; least thing makes me cry* and sob, so 
that I feel ashamed of myself!” 

“Ashamed! YoiU” cried Hallam, scornfully. 

“ Yes, I do, ’pon my word, Rob. But you will help me, 
won’t you?” 

“ No. Go to the constable’s house, and they’ll give you 
an order for the workhouse. Be off, and if you ever dare 
to come asking me again I’ll send for the officer at once.” 

“ But — but you will give me a shilling or two, Hallam?” 
said the miserable wretch. “I’m half starved.” 

“ You deserve to be quite starved 1 Now go.” 

“ But, Hallam, won’t you believe me, old fellow? I want 
to be honest now — to do the right thing. ’ ’ 

“Go and do it, then,” said Hallam, contemptuously. 
“Be off!” 

“ But give me a chance, old fellow, just one.” 

“I tell you I’ll do nothing for you,” cried Hallam, 
fiercely. “On the strength of your having been once re- 
spectable, if you had come to me humbly I’d have helped 
you, but you came down here to try and frighten me with 
your noise and bullying. You thought that if you came 
to the bank you would be able to dictate all your own 
terms, but you have failed, Stephen Crellock; so now go.” 

“ But, Rob, old fellow, I was so— so hard up. You don’t 
know.” 

“ Are you going before I send for the constable?” 

“ Yes, yes, I’m going,” said the miserable wretch, 
gathering himself up. “ I’m sorry I came to you, Hal- 
lam. I thought you would have helped a poor wretch, 
down as I am.” 

“ And you found out your mistake. A man in my posi- 
tion does not know a jail-bird.” 

There was a flash from the sunken eyes, and a quick 
gesture, but the flash died out, and the gesture seemed to 
be cut in half. Two years’ hard labor in one of his 
majesty’s jails had pretty well broken the weak fellow’s 
spirit. He stepped to the door, glanced round the comfort- 
able room, uttered a low moan, and was half out, when 
Hallam uttered sharply the one word “ Stop!” 

His visitor paused, and looked eagerly round upon him. 

“Look here, Stephen Ureliock,” he said^. “I don’t like 


/ 


'62 THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

to see a man like you go to the dogs without giving him a 
chance. There, come back and close the door.” 

The poor wretch came back, hurriedly, and made a 
snatch at Hallam’s hand, which was withdrawn. 

“No, no; wait till you’ve proved yourself . an honest 
man,” he said. 

Crellock's eyes flashed again, but as before the flash died 
out at once, and he stood humbly before his old fellow - 
clerk. 

Hallam remained silent for a few moments, and then, as 
if he had made up his mind, he said, “ I ought to hand you 
over to the constable, that is, if I did my duty as manager 
of Dixon’s Bank, and a good member of society, but I can’t 
forget that you were once a smart, gentlemanly-looking 
young fellow, who slipped and fell.” 

Crellock stood bent and humbled, staring at him in 
silence. 

“I’m going to let heart get the better of discipline,” con- 
tinued Hallam, “ and to-night I’m going to give you -five 
guineas to get back to London and make a fresh start ; and 
till that fresh start is made, and you can do without it, 
I’m going to give you a pound a week, if asked for by let- 
ter, humbly, and in a proper spirit.” 

“Eob!” 

“ There, there ; no words. I don’t want thanks. I know 
I’m doing wrong, and I hope my weakness will not prove 
my punishment.” 

“Itsha’n’t, Eob; itsha’n’t,” faltered the poor, shiver- 
ing wretch, who had hard work to keep back his tears. 

“There are four guineas, there’s a half, and there are 
ten shillings in silver. Now go to some decent inn — here 
is some food for present use — get a bed, and to-morrow 
morning catch the coach, and get back to London to seek 
work.” 

Hallam handed him the parcel he had made, e 

“I will, Eob; I will, Mr. Hallam, sir, and may ” 

“There, that will do,” said Hallam, interrupting him. 
“Prove all your gratitude by making yourself independ- 
ent as soon as you can. There, you see you have not 
frightened me into bribing you to be silent.” 

“ No, no, sir. Oh, no, I see that!” said the poor wretch, 
dolefully. “I’m very grateful, I am indeed, and I will 
try.” 

“Go, then, and try,” said Hallam, shortly. “Stop a 
moment.” 

He rang his bell, and Mrs. Pinet entered promptly, glanc- 
ing curiously at the visitor, and then back at her lodger, 
who paused to give her ample time to take in the scene. 
“Mrs. Pinet,” he said at last, in the coolest and most 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


83 


matter-of-fact way, “ this poor fellow wants a lodging for 
the night at some respectable place, where they will not be 
hard upon his pocket. ’ ’ 

“Well, sir, then he couldn’t do better than to goto 
Mrs. Deene’s, sir; a very respectable woman, whose hus 
band ” 

“Yes, to be sure, Mrs. Pinet,” said Hallam, abruptly; 
“then you’ll show him where it is. Good-night, Stephen; 
don’t waste your money, and I hope you will be pros- 
perous. ’ ’ 

“Good -night, sir, good-night,” and the dejected-looking 
object, thoroughly cowed by the treatment he had received, 
followed Hallam’s landlady to the outer door, where a 
short colloquy could be heard, and then there was a shuf- 
fling step passing the window, and the door closed. 

“I always expected it,” said Hallam to himself, as he 
stood gazing straight before him; “but I’ve drawn his 
teeth; he won’t bite — he dare not. I think I can manage 
Master Stephen— I always could.” He stood thinking for 
a few minutes, and then said, softly, “Well, what are ten 
or twenty pounds, or forty, if it comes to that! Yes,” he 
he added, deliberately, “I have done quite rightly, I am 
sure.” 

Undoubtedly, as far as his worldly wisdom lay, for it did 
not take long for the news to run round the town that a 
very shabby -looking fellow had been to the bank, evi- 
dently with burglarious intentions, but that the new man- 
ager had seized and held him, while James Thickens placed 
the big brass blunderbuss to his head, and then turned it 
round and knocked him down. This was Mr. Gemp's 
version, but it was rather spoiled by Mrs. Pinet when slie 
was questioned, and told her story of Mr. Hallam’s gener- 
ous behavior to this poor young man : 

“ One whom he had known in better days, my dear; and 
!OW he has quite set him up.” 


CHAPTEP V. ' 

A LITTLE BIT OF NEWS. 

Time glided very’rapidly by at King’s Castor, for there 
were few things to check his progress. People came to the 
market and did their business and went away. Most of 
them had something to do at Dixon’s Bank, for it was the 
pivot upon which the affairs of King’s Castor and tlie 
neighborhood turned. It was the center from which radi- 
ated the commerce of the place. Pivot or axle, there it 
was, with a patent box full of the oil that makes matters 
run easily, and so trade and finance round King’s Castor 


84 THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

seemed like some large wheel, that turned gently and 
easily on, 

Dixon’s had a great deal to do witli everybody, but 
Dixon’s was safe, and Dixon’s was sure. On every side 
you heard how that Dixon’s had taken this or that man by 
the hand with the best of results. Stammers borrowed 
money at five per cent, when he put out that new front. 
Morris bought his house with Dixon’s money, and they 
held the deeds, so that Morris was a man of importance— 
one of the privileged who paid no rent. He paid interest 
)n so many hundred pounds to Dixon’s half-yearly, but 
that was interest, not rent. 

Old Thomas Dixon seldom came to the bank now, though 
he was supposed to hold the reins of government, which 
he declined to hand over to his junior partners. Sir Gordon 
Bourne and Mr. Andrew Trampleasure. It was his wish 
that a practiced manager should be engaged from London, 
and hence the arrival of Mr. Eobert Hallam, who wore a 
much-talked of watch, that was by accident shown to 
Gemp, who learned what a repeater was, and read on the 
inside how that it was a testimonial from Barrow, Flad- 
gate & Eange for faithful services performed. 

Barrow, Fladgate & Range were the Lombard Street 
bankers, who acted as Dixon’s agents; and the news of 
that watch spread, and its possession was as a talisman to 
Robert Hallam. 

Sir Gordon did not exactly take offense, for he rarely 
took offense at anything, but he felt slighted about the en- 
gagement of Hallam, and visited the bank very little, 
handing over his duties to Trampleasure, who dwelt at the 
bank, had his private room, did all the talking to the 
farmers who came in, and did nothing more; but every- 
thing went smoothly and well. The new manager was the 
pattern of gentlemanly consideration — even to defaulters ; 
and the main thing discussed after two years’ residence in 
King’s Castor was, whom would he marry? 

There were plenty of wealthy farmers’ daughters in the 
neighborhood; several of the trades-people were rich in 
money and marriageable girls ; but to all and several Mr. 
Hallam of the bank displayed the same politeness, and at 
the end of two years there was quite a feeling of satisfac- 
tion among the younger ladies of King’s Castor at the 
general impression, and that was, that the much talked- of 
settler in their midst was not a marrying man. 

The reason is simple : he could only have married one, 
and not all. Many were vain enough to think that the 
good fortune would have come to them. But now, so to 
speak, Mr. Hallam of the bank had grown rather stale, and 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


35 


the interest was centered upon the new curate. The gossips 
were not long in settling his fate. 

“I know,” said Gemp, to a great many people; “gar- 
dening, eh? He, he, he! hi, hi, hi! You wouldn’t have 
thought it in a parson? But there, he’s very young.” 

“Yes, he is very young, Mr. Gemp,” said Mrs. Pinet 
one morning to that worthy, who quite occupied the ground 
that would have been covered by a local journal. For, 
having retired years back from business, he had— not 
being a reading man — nothing whatever to do but stand 
at his door and see what went on. “Yes, he is very 
young, Mr. Gemp,” said Mrs. Pinet. “But, poor young 
man, I suppose he can’t help it.” 

“ Help it, no! just the age, too, when a fellow’s always 
thinking about love. We know better at our time of life, 
eh?” 

Mrs. Pinet, who was one of those plump and rosy ladies 
with nice elastic flesh, which springs up again whenever 
time has made a crease, so that it does not show, bridled a 
little, and became very much interested in her row of ge- 
raniums in the parlor window, every one of which had 
lately been made more ornamental by a coat of red lead 
over its pot. For Mrs. Pinet did not yet know better. Slie 
had known better five years before, when Gemp had asked 
her to wed ; but at the time present she was wondering 
whether, if Mr. Thickens at the bank, where her little store 
of money lay, should fail, after all, to make her an offer, 
it was possible that Mr. Robert Hallam might think it very 
nice to have some one to go on always taking so much care 
of his linen as she did, and seeing that his breakfast bacon 
was always nicely broiled, his coffee clear, and his dinners 
exactly as he liked to have them. Certainly he was a good 
deal younger than she was, but she did not see why the 
wife should not be the elder sometimes as well as the hus- 
band. 

Hence it was that Gemp’s words jarred. 

“Seems rum, don’t it?” continued Gemp. “ I went by 
the other day, and there he was, with his coat off, helping 
Luttrell, wheeling barrows; and I’ve seen him weeding 
before now.” 

“ Well, I’m sure it’s very kind of him,” said Mrs. Pinet, 
quickly. She could not speak tartly; her physique and 
constitution forbade. 

“ Oh yes, it’s very kind of him, indeed; but he’d better 
be attending to his work.” 

“ I’m sure he works very hard in the place.” 

“ Oh yes. Of course he does; but don’t you see?” 

“See? No! See what?” 

“He, he, he! And you women pretend to be so sharp 


86 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


about these things. What does he go there gardening 


“Why, goodness gracious me, Mr. Gemp, you don’t 
think ” 

“Think? Why, I’m sure of it. I see a deal of what’s 
going on, Mrs. Pinet. I never look for it, but it comes. 
Why, he’s always there. He helps Luttrell when he’s at 
home; and old mother Luttrell talks to him about her jam. 
That’s his artfulness; he isn’t too young for that. Gets 
the old girl on his side.” 

“But do you really think Why she’s never had a 

sweetheart yet.” 

“That we know of, Mrs. P.,” said Gemp, with a meaning 
look. 

“She never has had,” said Mrs. Pinet, emphatically, 
“ or we should have known. Well, she’s very handsome 
and very nice, and I hope they’ll be very happy. But do 
you really think it’s true?” 

“True! Why, he’s always there of an evening, tootling 
on the flute and singing.” 

“ Oh, but that’s nothing; Mr. Hallam goes there too, and 
has some music. ” 

“Ay, but Hallam don’t go out with her picking flowers 
and botanizing. I’ve often seen ’em come home togetlier 
with arms full o’ rubbish; and one day, what do you 
think?” 


“Eeally, Mr. Gemp.” 

“ I dropped upon ’em down in a ditch, and when they saw 
me coming they pretended that they were finding little 
snail-shells.” 

“ Snail-shells?” 

“Yes, ma’am, and he pulls out a little magnifying-glass 
for her to look through. It may be a religious way of 
courting, but I say it’s disgusting.” 

“Really, Mr. Gemp!” said Mrs. Pinet, bridling. 

“ Ay, it is, ma’am. I like things open and above-board 
— a young man giving a young woman his arm, and taking 
her out for a walk reg’lar, and not going out in the lanes 
and keeping about a yard apart.” 

“ But do they, Mr. Gemp?” 

“Yes, just to make people think there’s nothing going 
on. But there, ma’am, I must be off. You mustn’t keep 
me. I can’t stop talking here.” 

“Well, really, Mr. Gemp,” said his hearer, bridling 
again, and resenting the idea that she had detained him. 

‘ ‘ Yes, I must go indeed. I say, though, seen any more 
of that chap?” 

“Chap? What chap, Mr. Gemp?” 

“Come now, you know what I mean. That shack, that 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 37 

ragged, shabby fellow— him as came to see Mr. Hallam the 
other day?” 

“ Oh, the poor fellow that Mr. Hallam helped?” 

“ To be sure— him. Been here again?” said Gemp, mak- 
ing a rasping noise with a rough finger on his beard. 

“ No, Mr. Gemp.” 

“No? Well, I suppose not. I haven’t seen him myself. 
Mornin’ ; can’t stop talking here.” 

Mr. Gemp concluded his gossips invariably in this mode, 
as if he resented being kept from business, which consisted 
in going to tell his tale again. 

Mrs. Pinet was left to pick a few withering leaves from 
her geraniums, a fioricultural act which she performed 
rather mechanically, for her mind was a good deal occu- 
pied by Gemp’s disclosure. 

“They’d make a very nice pair, that they would,” she 
said, thoughtfully; “and how would it be managed, I 
wonder? He couldn’t marry himself, of course, and — oh, 
Mr. Thickens, how you did make me jump!” 

“Jump? Didn’t see you, Mrs. Pinet,” said the clerk, 
smiling sadly, as if he thought Mrs. Pinet’s banking ac- 
count was lower than it should be. 

“Well, bless the man, you know what I mean. Steal- 
ing up so quietly, like a robber or thief in the night.” 

“ Oh! Not come to steal, but to beg.” 

“Beg, Mr. Thickens? What, a subscription for some- 
thing?” 

“No. I was coming by. Mr. Hallam wants the book on 
his shelf, ‘Brown’s Investor.’ ” 

“Oh, I see. Come in, Mr. Thickens!” she exclaimed, 
warmly. “ I’ll get the book.” 

“ Won’t come in, thank you.” 

“Now do, Mr. Thickens, and have a glass of wine and a 
bit of cake. ’ ’ 

The quiet, dry-looking clerk shook his head and smiled. 

“Plenty of gossips in the town, Mrs. Pinet, without my 
joining the ranks.” 

“Now that’s unkind, Mr. Thickens. I only wanted to 
ask you if you thought it true that Mr. Bayle is going to 
marry Miss Millicent Luttrell; Mr. Gemp says he is.” 

“Divide what Gemp says by five, subtract half, and the 
remainder may be correct, ma’am.” 

“Then it isn’t true??’ 

“I don’t know, ma’am.” 

“Oh, what a tiresome, close old bank-safe of a man you 
are, Mr. Thickens! — just like your cupboard in the bank.” 

“Where I want to be, Mrs. Pinet, if you will get me the 
book.” 

“ Oh, well, co]ne inside, and I’ll get it for you directly. 


38 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


But it isn’t neighborly when I wanted to ask you about 
fifty pounds I wish to put away.” 

He followed her quickly into the parlor occupied by tlie 
manager, and then glanced sharply round. 

“Have you consulted him — Mr. Hallam?” he said, 
sharply. 

“No, of course not. I have always taken your advice 
so far, Mr. Thickens. I don’t talk about my bit of money 
to all my friends. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Quite right, ’ ’ he said — “ quite right. Fifty pounds, did 
you say?” 

“Yes; and I’d better bring it to Dixon’s, hadn’t I?” 

James Thickens began to work at his smoothly-shaven 
face, pinching his cheeks with his long white fingers and 
thumb, and drawing them down to his chin, as if he wished 
to pare that off to a point — an unnecessary procedure, as it 
was already very sharp. 

“I can’t do better, can I?” 

The bank clerk looked sharply round the room again, his 
eyes lighting on the desk, books, and various ornaments 
with which the manager had surrounded himself. 

“ I don’t know,” he said at last. 

“But I don’t like keeping the money in the house, Mr. 
Thickens. I always wake up about three, and fancy that 
thieves are breaking in.’ ’ 

“ Give it to me, then, and I’ll put it safely for you some- 
where.” 

“In the bank, Mr. Thickens?” 

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “Give me the book. 
Thank you. I’ll talk to you about the money another 
time;” and placing the volume under his arm, he glanced 
once more sharply round the room, and then went off very 
thoughtful and strange of aspect— veritably looking, as 
Mrs. Pinet said, as close as a safe up at Dixon’s Bank. 


CHAPTER VI. 

SIR GORDON IS TROUBLED WITH DOUBTS. 

First love is like furze; it is very beautiful and golden, 
but about and under the rich yellow there are thorns many 
and sharp. It catches fire, too, quickly, and burns up with 
a tremendous amount of crackling, and the heat is great, but 
not always lasting. 

Christie Bayle did not take this simile to heart, but a 
looker-on might have done so, especially such a looker-on 
as Robert Hallam, who visited at the doctor’s just as of 
old— before the arrival of the new curate, whose many 
calls did not seem to trouble him in the least. 

All the same, though, he was man of the world euongli 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


39 


to see the bent of Christie Bayle’s thoughts, and how 
quickly and strongly his love had caught and burned. For, 
treating Gemp’s statements as James Thickens suggested, 
and dividing them by five, the quotient was quite suffi- 
ciently heavy to show that if the curate did not marry Mil- 
licent Luttrell it would be no fault of his. 

He was, as his critics said, very young. Twenty-four 
numbered his years, and his educational capabilities were 
on a par therewith; but of matters worldly and of the heart 
twenty would better have represented his age. 

He had come down here fresh from his studious life, to 
find the place full of difficulties, till that evening when he 
found in Millicent a coadjutor, and one who seemed to 
take delight in helping and advising him. Then the old 
midland town had suddenly become to him a paradise, and 
a strange eagerness seemed to pervade him. 

How was he to attack such and such an evil in one of 
the low quarters? 

He would call at the doctor’s, and mention the matter to 
Miss Luttrell. 

It was to find her enthusiastic, but at the same time full 
of shrewd common sense, and clever suggestions which he 
followed out, and the way became smooth. 

His means were good, for just before leaving college the 
death of an aunt had placed him in possession of a compe- 
tency ; hence he wished to be charitable, and Millicent ad- 
vised him as to the best channels into which he could di- 
rect his molten gold. 

Then there were the Sundays when, after getting easily 
and well through the service, he ascended the pulpit to 
commence his carefully elaborated sermon, the first sen- 
tences of which were hard, faltering, and dry, till his eyes 
fell upon one sweet, grave face in the middle of the aisle, 
watching him intently, and its effect was strange. For as 
their eyes met, Christie Bayle’s spirit seemed to awaken; 
he ceased to read the sermon. Words, sentences, and 
whole paragraphs were crowding in his brain eager to be 
spoken, and as they were spoken it was with a fire and 
eloquence that deeply stirred his hearers; while when, 
perhaps, at the very last, his eyes fell once more upon 
Millicent’s calm, sweet face, he would see that it was 
slightly flushed and her eyes were suffused. 

He did not know it, but her influence stirred him in 
everything he did, and when he called, there was no mis- 
taking the bright, eager look of pleasure, the friendly 
warmth, and the words that were almost reproachful if he 
liad allowed three or four days to pass. 

Work? No man could have worked harder or with a 
greatei* display of iseak ^ho would be pleased, he felt, to 


/ 


40 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


see how he had made changes in several matters that were 
foul with neglect. And it was no outer whitewashing of 
that which was unclean within. Christie Bayle was very 
young, and he had suddenly grown enthusiastic; so that 
when he commenced some work he never paused until it 
was either well in train or was done. 

“ You’re just the man we wanted here, ” said Dr. Luttrell. 
“ Why, Bayle, you have wakened me up. I tried all sorts 
of reformations years ago, but I had not your enthusiasm, 
and I soon wearied and jogged on in the old way. I 
shall have to begin now, old as I am, and see what I can 
do.” 

‘‘But it is shameful, papa, what opposition Mr. Bayle 
meets with in the town,” cried Millicent, warmly. 

“ Yes, my dear, it is. There’s a great deal of opposition 
to everything that is for people’s good.” 

Millicent was willing enough to help, for there was soine- 
thing delightfully fresh and pleasant in her association 
with Christie Bayle. 

“He’s working too hard, my dear,” the doctor said. 
“ He wants change. He’s a good fellow. You and your 
mother must coax him here more, and get him out.” 

Bayle wanted no coaxing, for he came willingly enough 
to work hard with the doctor in the garden ; to inspect 
Mrs. Luttrell’s jams, and see how she soaked the paper in 
brandy before she tied them down ; to go for walks with 
Millicent, or, on wet days, read German with her, or prac- 
tise some instrumental or vocal duet. 

How pleasantly, how happily, those days glided by ! 

Mr. Hallam from the bank came just as often as of old, 
and once or twice seemed disposed to speak slightingly of 
the curate, but he saw so grave and appealing a look in 
Millicent’ s eyes that he hastened in his quiet, gentlemanly 
way to efface the slight. 

Sir Gordon Bourne, as was his custom when not at the 
Hall or away with his yacht, came frequently to the doc- 
tor’s evenings, heavy with the smartest of sayings and 
the newest of stories from town. Gravely civil to the 
bank manager, a little distant to the new curate, and then, 
by degress, as the months rolled by, talking to him, invit- 
ing him to dinner, placing his purse at his disposal for de- 
serving cases of poverty, and at last becoming great 
friends. 

“An uncommonly good fellow, doctor, uncommonly. 
Very young— yes, very young. Egad, sir, I envy him 
sometimes, that I do. ” 

“ I’m glad you like him, Sir Gordon,” cried Millicent, 
one day. 

“Are yoUf my dear, are you?” he said, half sadly. 


41 


(fife MAN’S WIFE. 

“Well, why shouldn’t I? the man’s sincere. He goes 
about his Avork without fuss or pretense. He does not 
consider it his duty to be always preaching at you and 
pulling a long face, but seems to me to be doing a wonder- 
ful deal of good in a quiet way. Do you know ” 

He paused and looked from the doctor to Mrs. Luttrell, 
and then at Millicent, half laughingly. 

“Do we know AAdiat?” 

“Well, I’ll confess. I’ve played chess with him, and 
we’ve had a rubber at Avhist here, and he never touched 
upon sacred subjects since I’ve knoAvn him, and it has had 
a curious effect upon me. ’ ’ 

“A curious effect?” said Millicent, wonderingly. 

“Yes, egad, it’s a fact; he makes me feel as if I ought to 
go and hear him preach, and if you’ll take me next Sun- 
day, Miss Millicent, I Avill.” 

Millicent laughingly agreed, and Sir Gordon kept his 
word, going to the doctor’s on Sunday morning, and walk- 
ing with the ladies to church. 

It is worthy of remark, though, that he talked a good 
deal to himself as he went home, weary and uncomfortable 
from wearing tight boots, and bracing up. 

“ It won’t do,” he said. “ I’m old enough to know bet- 
ter, and if I can see into such matters more clearly than I 
could twenty years ago, Bayle’s in love with her. Well, a 
good thing too, for I’m afraid Hallam is taken too, and— 
no that would not do. I’ve nothing whatever against the 
fellaw ; a gentleman in his manners, the very perfection of 
a rhanager, but somehow I should not like to see her his 
wife.” 

“ Why?” he said, after a pause. 

He shook his head. 

“I can’t answer that question,” he muttered; and he 
was as far off from the answer when six months had 
passed. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. 

“ Going out for a drive?” 

“Yes, Mr. Bayle; and it was of no use my speaking. 
No end of things to see to; but the doctor would have me 
come with him.” 

“I think the doctor was quite right, Mrs. Luttrell.” 

“There you are. You see, my dear— what did I tell 
you? Plants must have air, mustn’t they, Bayle?” 

“Certainly.” 

“ I wish you would not talk like that, dear; I am not a 
plant.” 


4‘2 THIS MAN^S W^K 

“ But you want air,” cried the doctor, giving his whip a 
flick, and making his sturdy cob jump. 

‘‘Oh! do be careful, my dear,” cried Mrs. Luttrell, nerv- 
ously, as she snatched at the whip. 

‘‘ Oh, yes. I’ll be careful. I say, Bayle, I wish you would 
look in as you go by ; I forgot to open the cucumber-frame, 
and the sun’s coming out strong. Just lift it about three 
inches.” 

‘‘ I will,” said the curate; and the doctor drove on to see 
a patient half a dozen miles away. 

‘‘Well, you often tell me I’m a very foolish woman, my 
dear,” said Mrs. Luttrell, buttoning and unbuttoning the 
chaise-apron with uneasy fingers, ” but I should not have 
done such a thing as that.” 

“ Thing as what?” cried the doctor. 

“ As to send a gentleman on to our house where Milly’s 
all alone. It doesn’t seem prudent.” 

“ What, not to ask a friend to look in and lift the cu- 
cumber-light?” 

‘‘But with Milly all alone; and I never leave her with- 
out feeling that something is going to happen.” 

“Pish! fudge! stuff!” cried the doctor. “I never did 
see such a woman as you are. I declare you think of 
nothing but courting. You ought to be ashamed of your- 
self at your time of life.” 

“ Now, you ought not to speak like that, my dear. It’s 
very wrong of you, for it’s not true. Of course I feel 
anxious about Millicent, as every prudent woman should.” 

“Anxious! what is there to be anxious about? Such 
nonsense ! Do you think Bayle is a wolf in sheep’s cloth- 
ing?” 

“No, of course I don’t. Mr. Bayle is a most amiable, 
likable young man, and I feel quite surprised how I’ve 
taken to him. I thought it quite shocking at first when he 
came, he seemed so young; but I like him now very much 
indeed.” 

“And yet you would not trust him to go to the house 
when we were away. For shame, old lady, for shame!” 

“ I do wish you would not talk to me like that, my dear. 
I never know whether you are in earnest or joking.” 

“Noav, if it had been Hallam, you might have spoken. 
Ah! Betsey, what are you shying at? Keep that apron 
fastened, will you? What are you going to do?” 

“I was only unfastening it ready — in case I had to jump 
out,” faltered Mrs. Luttrell. 

“Jump out! Why, mother! There, you are growing 
into quite a nervous old woman. You stop indoors too 
much.” 

“ But is there any danger, my dear?” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


43 


“Danger! Why, look for yourself. The mare saw a 
wheelbarrow, and she was frightened. Don’t be so silly.” 

“Well, I’ll try not,” said Mrs. Luttrell, smoothing down 
the cloth fold over the leather apron, but looking rather 
flushed and excited as the cob trotted rapidly over the 
road. “You were saying, dear, something about Mr. 
Hallam.” 

“Yes. What of him?” 

“Of course we should not have sent him to the house 
when Milly was alone.” 

“Humph! I suppose not. I say, old lady, you’re not 
planning match-making to hook that good-looking cash- 
box, are you?” 

“What, Mr. Hallam, dear? Oh, don’t talk like that!” 

“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor, making the whip-lash 
whistle about the cob’s ears; “you are not very fond of 
him, then?” 

“Well, no, dear, I can’t sa^ I am. He’s very gentle- 
manly and handsome and particular, but somehow ” 

“Ah!” said the doctor, with a dry chuckle, “that’s it — 
‘ somehow.’ That’s the place where I stick. No, old lady, 
he won’t do. I was a bit afraid at first; but he seems to 
keep just the same; makes no advances. He wouldn’t 
do.” 

“Oh, dear me, no!” cried Mrs. Luttrell, with quite a 
shudder. 

“Why not?” said the doctor, sharply; “ don’t you like 
him?” 

“ Perhaps it would not be just to say so,” said Mrs. Lut- 
trell, nervously, “ but I’m glad Milly does not seem to take 
to him.” 

“ So am I. Curate would be far better, eh?” 

“ And you charge me with match-making, my dear? It 
is too bad.” 

“Ah! well, perhaps it is; but don’t you think— eh?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Luttrell, “ I do not. Millicent is very 
friendly to Mr. Bayle, and looks upon him as a pleasant 
youth who has similar tastes to her own. And certainly 
he is very nice and natural.” 

“ And yet you object to his going to see the girl when we 
are out! There, get along, Betsey; we shall never be 
there.” 

The whip whistled round the cob’s head, and the chaise 
turned down a pleasant, woody lane, just as Christie Bayle 
lifted the latch and entered the doctor’s garden. 

It was very beautiful there in the bright morning sun- 
shine ; the velvet turf so green and smooth, and the beds 
vying one with the other in brightness. There was no one 


44 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


in the garden, and all seemed strangely still at the house, 
with its open windows and flower-decked porch. 

Bayle had been requested to look in and execute a com- 
mission for the doctor, but all the same he felt guilty ; and 
though he directed an eager glance or two at the open 
windows, he turned, with his heart throbbing heavily, to 
the end of the closely-clipped yew hedge, and passed round 
into the kitchen -garden, and then up one walk and down 
another, to the sunny- sheltered top, where the doctor 
grew his cucumbers, and broke down with his melons every 
year. 

There was a delicious scent from the cuttings of the 
lawn, which were piled round the frame, fermenting and 
giving out heat; and as the curate reached the glass lights, 
there was the interior hung with great dew-drops which 
began to coalesce and run off as he raised the ends of the 
lights and looked in. 

Puff! quite a wave of heated air, fragrant with the 
young growth of the plants, all looking richly green and 
healthy, and with the golden starry blossoms peeping here 
and there. 

Quite at home, Christie Bayle thrust in his arm and took 
out a little block of wood cut like an old-fashioned gun- 
carriage or a set of steps, and with this he propped up one 
light, so that the heat might escape and the temperature 
fall. 

This done he moved to the next, and thrust down the 
light, for he had seen from the other side a glistening, 
irregular, iridescent streak, which told of the track of an 
enemy, and this enemy had to be found. 

That light uttered a loud, plaintive squeak as it was 
thrust down, a sound peculiar to the lights of cucumber- 
frames ; and leaning over the edge, Bayle began to peer 
about among the broad prickly leaves of the cucumbers. 

Yes, there was the enemy’s trail, and he must be found, 
for it would have been cruel to the doctor to have left such 
a devouring creature there. 

In and out among the trailing stems, and over the soft 
black earth, through which the delicate roots were peep- 
ing, were the dry, glistening marks just as if some one had 
dipped a brush in a paint formed of pearl shells dissolved 
in oil, and tried to imitate the veins in a block of marble. 

Yes ; in and out — there it went, showing how busy the 
creature had been during the night, and the task was to 
find where it had gone to rest and sleep for the day, ready 
to come forth refreshed for another mischievous nocturnal 
prowl. 

“Now where can that fellow have hidden himself?” said 
the follower of the trail, peering about, and taking off his 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


45 


hat, and standing it on the next light. “One of those 
great gray fellows, I’ll be bound. Ah, to be sure! Come 
out, sir.” 

The tale-telling trail ended where a seed-pan stood con- 
taining some young Brussels sprouts which had attained a 
goodly size, and upon these the enemy had supped heart- 
ily, crawling down afterward to sleep off the effects be- 
neath the pan. 

It was rather difficult to reach that pan, for the edge of 
the frame was waist high, but it had to be done, and the 
slug raked out with a bit of stick. 

That was it 1 No, it was not ; the hunter could not quite 
reach, and had to wriggle himself a little more over and 
then try. 

The search was earnest and successful, the depredator 
dying an ignominious death, crushed with a piece of pot- 
sherd against the seed-pan, and then being buried at once 
beneath the soil; but to a looker-on the effect was gro- 
tesque. 

There was a looker-on here, advancing slowly along the 
path with a bunch of flowers in one hand, a pair of scis- 
sors in the other. In fact, that peculiar squeak made by 
the frame had attracted Millicent’s attention at a time 
when she believed every one to be away. 

As she approached, she became conscious of the hind- 
quarters of a man clothed in that dark mixture that used 
to be popularly known as “pepper-and-salt,” standing up 
out of one of the cucumber- frames, and executing move- 
ments as if he were practicing diving in a dry bath. Sud- 
denly the legs subsided and sank down. Then they rose 
again, and kicked about, the rest of the man still remain- 
ing hidden in the frame, and then, at last, there was a 
rapid retrograde motion, and Christie Bayle emerged, hot, 
disheveled, but triumphant for a moment, then scarlet 
with confusion and annoyance as he hastily caught up his 
hat, clapped it on, but hurriedly took it off and bowed. 

“Miss Luttrell!” he exclaimed. 

“Mr. Bayle!” she cried, forbearing to smile as she saw 
his confusion. I heard the noise and wondered what it 
could be.” 

“I — I met your father,” he said, hastily adjusting the 
light; “he asked me to open the frames. A tiresome 
slug ” 

“It was very kind of you,” she said, holding out her 
hand and pressing his in her frank, warm grasp, and full 
of eagerness to set him at his ease. “Papa will be so 
pleased that you have caught one of his enemies.” 

“ Thank you,” he said, uneasily; “ it is very kind of you. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


4(i 

I’m the most unlucky wretch under the sun, always mak- 
ing myself ridiculous before her,” he added to himself. 

‘‘Kind of me? No, of you, to come and take all that 
trouble. Poor fellow!” she thought, ‘‘he fancies that I 
am going to laugh at him. I’ve been so busy, Mr. Bayle; 
I’ve copied out the whole of that duet. When are you 
coming in to try it over?” 

‘‘Do you wish me to try it with you?” he said, rather 
coldly. , ! 

“Why, of course. There are no end of pretty little 
passages, solo for the flute. We must have a good long 
practice together before we play it in public.” 

“ You’re very kind and patient with me,” he said, as he 
gazed at the sweet, calm face by his side. 

“Nonsense!” she cried. “ I’m cutting a few flowers for 
Miss Heathery ,'‘^she is the most grateful recipient of a pres- 
ent of this kind that I know.” 

They were walking back toward the house as she spoke, 
and from time to time Millicent stopped to snip off some 
flower, or to ask her companion to reach one that grew on 
high. 

In a few minutes she had set him quite at his ease, and 
they were talking quietly about their life, their neighbors, 
about his endeavors to improve the place ; and yet all the 
time there seemed to him to be an undercurrent in his life 
flowing beneath that sui’face talk. The garden was seen 
through a medium that tinted everything with joy; the 
air he breathed was perfumed and intoxicating; the 
few bird-notes that came from time to time sounded more 
sweetly than he had ever heard them before ; and hardly 
able to realize it himself, life — existence, seemed one sweetly 
calm, and yet paradoxically troubled delight. 

His heart was beating fast, and there was a strange sense 
of oppression as he loosed the reins of his imagination for 
a moment, but the next, as he turned to gaze at the in- 
nocent, happy, unruffled face, so healthful and sweet, with 
the limpid gray eyes ready to meet his own so frankly, the 
calm came, and he felt that he could ask no greater joy 
than to live that peaceful life ever at her side. 

It would be hard to tell how it happened. They strolled 
about the garden till Millicent laughingly said that it 
would be like trespassing on her father’s carte blanche to 
cut more flowers, and then they went through the open 
French window into the drawing-room, where he sat near 
her, as if intoxicated by the sweetness of her voice, while 
she talked to him in unrestrained freedom of her happy, 
contented life, and bade him not to think he need be cere- 
monious there. 

Yes, it would be hard to tf'll how it happened. There 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


47 


was one grand stillness without, as if the ardent sunshine 
had drunk up all sound but the dull, heavy throb of his 
heart, and the music of that sweet voice which now lulled 
him to a sense of delicious repose, now made every nerve 
and vein tingle with a joy he had never before known. 

It had been a mystery to him in his student life. Books 
had been his world, and ambition to win a scholarly fame 
his care. Now it had by degrees dawned upon him that 
there was another, a greater love than that, transcending 
it so that all that had gone before seemed pitiful and small. 
He had met her, her voice would be part of his life from 
henceforth, and at last— how it came about he could not 
have told— he Avas standing at her side, holding her hands 
firmly in his own, and saying in low and eager tones that 
trembled Avith emotion ; 

“ Millicent, I love you— my love — my love!” 

For a feAV moments Millicent Luttrell stood motionless, 
gazing wonderingly at her companion as he bent doAvn 
over her hands and pressed his lips upon them. 

Then snatching them aAvay, her soft, creamy face turned 
to scarlet with indignation, but only for this to fade as she 
met his eyes and read there the earnest look he gave her, 
and his act from that moment ceased to be the insult she 
thought at first. 

• ” Miss Luttrell 1” he said. 

“ Hush! don’t speak to me,” she cried. 

He took a step forward, but she waved him back, and 
for a few moments sobbed passionately, struggling hard 
the Avhile to master her emotion. 

“Have I offended you?” he panted. “Dear Millicent, 
listen to me. What have I done?” 

“ Hush !” she cried. “ It is all a terrible mistake. What 
have I done?” 

There Avas a pause, and the deep silence seemed to be 
filled now Avith strange noises. TJiere was a painful throb- 
bing of the heart, a singing in the ears, and life was all 
changed as Millicent at last mastered her emotion, and her 
voice seemed to come to the listener softened and full of 
pity as if spoken by one upon some far-off shore, so calm, so 
grave, and slow, so impassionately the words fell upon his 
ear. 

Such simple Avords, and yet to him like the death knell 
of all his hope in life. 

CHAPTER VHI. 

CROSSED IN LOVE. 

“Oh, Mr. Bayle, I am so sorry!” 

He looked piteously in the handsome pale young face be- 


48 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


fore him, his heart sinking, and a feeling of misery such as 
lie had never before known chilling him so that he strove 
in vain to speak. 

The words w^ere not cruel, they w^ere hot marked with 
scorn or contempt. There was no coquetry — no hope. 
They were spoken in a voice full of gentle sympathy, and 
there was tender pity in every tone, and yet they chilled 
him to the heart. 

“Oh, Mr. Bayle, I am so sorry!” 

It needed no look to indorse those words, and yet it was 
there, beaming upon him from those sweet, frank eyes that 
had filled again with tears which she did not passionately 
dash aside, but which brimmed and softly dropped upon 
the hands she clasped across her breast. 

He saw plainly enough that it had all been a dream — his 
dream of love and joy; that he had been too young to read 
a woman’s heart aright, and that he had taken her little 
frank kindnesses as responses to his love ; and he needed 
no explanations, for the tones in which she uttered those 
words crushed him, till, as he stood before her in those 
painful moments, he realized that the death-blow to all his 
hopes had come. 

He sank back in his chair as she stood before him, gaz- 
ing up at her in so boyish and piteous a manner that she 
spoke again. 

“Indeed, indeed, Mr. Bayle, I thought our intimacy so 
pleasant, I was so happy with you.” 

‘ ‘ Then I may hope, ” he cried, passionately. “ Millicent, 
dear Millicent, all my life has been spent in study ; I have 
read so little, I never thought of love till I saw you, but it 
has grown upon me till I can think only of jmu — your 
words, the tones of your voice, your face, all are with me 
always, with me now. Millicent, dear Millicent, it is a 
man’s first true love, and you could give me hope.” 

“Oh hush, hush!” she said, gently, as she held out her 
hand to him, which he seized and covered with his kisses, 
till she withdrew it firmly, and shook her head. “I am 
more pained than I can say,” she said, softly. “ I tell you 
I never thought of such a thing as tliis.” 

“But you will,” he said, “ Millicent, my love!” 

“Mr. Bayle,” she said, with some attempt at firmness, 
“ if I have ever, by my thoughtlessness, made you think I 
cared for you otherwise than as a very great friend, for- 
give me.” 

“ A friend!” he cried, bitterly. 

“ Yes, as a friend. Is friendship so slight a thing that 
you speak of it like that?” 

“Yes,” he cried; “ at a time like this, when I ask for 
bread and you give me a stone.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


49 


“Oh, hush!” she said again, softly, and there was a sad 
smile through her tears. ‘ ‘ I should be cruel if I did not 
speak to you plauily and firmly. Mr. Bayle, what you ask 
is impossible. ’ ’ 

“You despise me,” he cried, passionately, “because I 
am so boyish — so young.” 

“No,” she said, gently, as she laid her hand upon his 
shoulder. “Let me S])eak to you as an elder sister 
might.” 

“ A sister!” he cried, angrily. 

“ Yes, as a sister,” replied Millicent, gently. “ Christie 
Bayle, it was those very things in you that attracted me 
first. I never had a brother; but you, with your frank 
and free-hearted youthfulness, your genuine freshness of 
nature, seemed so brotherly that my life for the past few 
months has been brighter than ever. Our reading, our 
painting, our music— oh, why did you dash all those happy 
times away?” 

“ Because I am not a boy,” he cried, angrily; “because 
I am a man— a man who loves you. Millicent, will you not 
give me hope?” 

There was a pause, during which she stood gazing right 
over his head as he still sat there with outstretched hands, 
which he at last dropped with a gesture of despair. 

“No,” she said, at last, “I cannot give you hope. It is 
impossible.” 

“Then you love some one else?” he cried, with boyish 
anger. “ Oh, it is cruel. You led me on to love you, and 
now, in your coquettish triumph, you throw me aside for 
some other plaything of the hour.” 

Millicent’s brow contracted, and a half-angry look came 
into her eyes. 

“This talk to me of brotherly feeling and of being a 
sister, is it to mock me? It is as I thought,” he cried, pas- 
sionately, “as I have heard, with you handsome women ; 
you who delight in giving pain, in trifling with a weak, 
foolish fellow’s heart, so that you may bring him to your 
feet.” 

“Christie!” 

“No,” he raged, as he started to his feet, “don’t speak 
to me like that. I will nob be led on again. Enjoy your 
triumph, but let it be made bitter by the knowledge that 
you have wrecked my life.” 

“ Oh, hush, hush, hush !” she said softly. “You are not 
yourself, Christie Bayle, or you would not speak to me like 
this. You know that you are charging me with that 
which is not true. How can you be so cruel?” 

‘ ‘ Cruel ! It is you, ’ ’ he cried passionately. ‘ ‘ But there, 


50 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


it is all over. I shall leave here at once. I wish I Jhad 
never seen the town. ” 

“Christie,” she said gently, “listen to me. Be your- 
self and go liome, and think over all this. I cannot give 
you what you ask. Come, be wise and manlj^ over this 
disappointment. Go away for a week and then come back 
to me, and let our pleasant old friendship be resumed. 
You give me pain, indeed you do, by this outburst. It is 
"so unlike you.” 

“ Unlike me? Yes, you have nearly driven me mad.” 

“No, no. No, no,” she said tenderly. “Becalm. In- 
deed and indeed I have felt as warm and affectionate to 
you of late as a sister could feel to a brother. I have felt 
so pleased to see how you were winning your way here 
among the people; and when I have heard a light or con- 
temptous utterance about you, it has made me angry and 
ready to speak in your defense. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, I know,” he cried, “ and it is this that taught mo 
that you must care for me — must love me.” 

“ Cannot a woman esteem and be attached to a youtli 
without loving him?” 

“ Youth! There! You treat me as if I were a boy,” ho 
cried angrily. “ Can I help seeming so young?” 

“ No,” she said, taking his hand, “but you are in heart 
and way very, very young, Christie Bayle. Am I to tell 
you again that it was this brought about our intimacy, for 
I found you so fresh in your young manliness, so different 
from the gentlemen that I have been accustomed to. Come, 
forget all this. Let us be friends.” 

“Friends! No. it is impossible,” he cried, bitterly. “I 
know I am boyish and weak, and that is why you hold 
me in such contempt.” 

“Contempt! Oh, no!” 

“ But some day,” he pleaded, “ I’ll wait— any time ” 

‘ No, no, no,” she said, flushing, “it is impossible.” 

“ Then,” he raged, as he started up, “I am right. You 
love some one else. . Who is it? I will know.” 

“Mr. Bayle!” 

There was a calm, queenly dignity in her look and words 
that checked his rage, and she saw it as he sank into the 
nearest chair, his face bent down upon his hands, and his 
shoulders heaving with the emotion that escaped now and 
then in a hoarse sob. 

“Poor boy!” she said to herself, as the indignation he 
had roused gave way to pity. 

“Christie Bayle,” slie said, as she approached him once 
more, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. 

“Don’t touch me,” he cried, hoarsel}^, as he sprung up; 
and she started back, half -frightened at his wild, haggard' 


THIS 3IAN'S WIFE. 


51 


face. “ I might have known,” he panted. “Heaven for- 
give you ! Good bye— good bye forever !’ ’ 

Before Millicent could speak he had reached the door, 
and the next minute she heard his hurried steps as he went 
down the street. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE SCALES PALL FROM SIR GORDON’S EYES. 

Millicent stood listening till the steps had died away, 
and then sat down at the writing-table. 

“ Poor boy !” she said, softly, as she passed her hand over 
her eyes, ‘ ‘ I am so sorry. ’ ’ 

She laid down the pen, and ran over her conduct — all 
that she had said and done since her first meeting with the 
curate; but ended by shaking her head, and declaring to 
herself that she could find nothing in her behavior to call 
for blame. 

“No,” she said, rising from the table, after writing a 
few lines, which she tore up, “I must not write to him; 
the wound must be left to time.” 

A double knock announced a visitor, and directly after 
Thisbe ushered in Sir Gordon, who, in addition to his cus- 
tomary careful dress, wore— what was very unusual for 
him— a flower in his button hole, one which, with a great 
sho A of ceremony, he detached, and presented to Millicent 
before taking his seat. 

As a rule he was full of chatty conversation, but, to 
Millicent’ s surprise, he remained perfectly silent, gazing 
straight before him through the window. 

“ Is anything the matter. Sir Gordon?” said Millicent at 
last. “Papa is out, but he will not be long.” 

These words roused him, and he smiled at her gravely. 

“No, my dear Miss Luttrell,” he said, “nothing is 
wrong; but at my time of life, when a man has anything 
particular to say, he weighs it well— he brings a good deal 
of thought to bear. I was trying to do this now.” 

“But mamma is out too,” said Millicent. 

“ Yes, I know,” he replied, “ and therefore I came on to 
speak to you.” 

“ Sir Gordon!” 

“My dear Miss Luttrell— there, I have known you so 
long that I may call you my dear child— I think you be- 
lieve in me?” 

“Believe in you. Sir Gordon?” 

“Yes, that I have the instincts, I hope, of a gentleman; 
that I am your father’s very good friend, and that I I'ever- 
ence his child,” 


52 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


“Oh, yes, Sir Gordon,” said Millicent, placing her hand 
in his as he extended it toward her. 

“That is well, then,” he said, and there was another 
pause, during which he gazed down thoughtfully at the 
hand he held for a few moments, and then raised it to his 
lips and allowed it afterward to glide away. 

Millicent flushed slightly, for in spite of herself the 
thought of her visitor’s obje9t began to dawn upon her, 
though she refused to believe it at first. 

“Let me see,” he said at last, “ time slides away so fast. 
You must be three-and-twenty now.” 

“ I thought a lady’s age was a secret, Sir Gordon,” said 
Millicent, smiling. 

“ To weak, vain women, yes, my child; but your mind is 
too clear and candid for such subterfuges as that. Twenty- 
three! Compared with that, I am quite an old man.” 

Millicent’s color began to deepen, but she made a brave 
effort to be calm, mastered her emotion, and sat listening 
to the strange wooing that had commenced. 

“ I am going to speak very plainly,” her visitor said, gaz- 
ing wistfully in her eyes, “and to tell you, Millicent, that 
for the past'five years I have been your humble suitor.” 

“Sir Gordon!” 

“Hush, hush! On the strength of our old friendship 
hear me out, my child. I will not say a word that shall 
willfully give you pain. I only ask for a hearing.” 

Millicent sank back in her chair, clasped her hands, and 
let them rest in her lap, for she was t(*o agitated to speak. 
The events of an hour or two before had unhinged her. 

“For five years I have been nursing this idea in my 
breast,” he continued, “ one day determining to speak, and 
then telling myself that I was weak and foolish, that the 
thing was impossible ; and then, as you know, I have gone 
away for months together in my yacht. I will tell you 
what I have said to myself: ‘You are getting Avell on in 
life; she is young and beautiful. The match would not be 
right. Some day she will form an attachment to some man 
suited to her. Take your pleasure in seeing the woman 
you love happier than you could ever make her.’ ” 

This was a revelation to Millicent, whose lips parted, and 
whose troubled eyes were fixed upon the speaker. 

“ The years went on, my child,” continued Sir Gordon, 
“ and I kept fancying that the man had come, and that the 
test of my love for you was to be tried. I was willing to 
suffer— for your sake— to see you happy; and though I was 
ready to offer you wealth, title, and the tender affection of 
an elderly man, I put it aside, striving to do my duty.” 

“ Sir Gordon, I never knew of all this.” 

“J^new!” he said, with a smile, “no; I never let you 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


5B 

know. Well, my child, not to distress you much, I have 
waited; and, as you know, I have seen your admirers flit- 
ting about you, one by one, all these years; and I confess 
it, Avith a sense of delight I dare not dwell upon, I have 
found that not one of these butterflies has succeeded in 
winning our little flower. She has always been heart- 

whole and There, I dare not say all I would. At 

last, with a pang that I felt that I must suffer, I saw, as I 
believed, that the right man had come, in the person of our 
friend Christie Bayle. It has been agony to me, though I 
have hidden it beneath a calm face, I hope, and T have 
fought on as I saw your intimacy increase. For I said to 
myself, it is right. He is well-to-do; he is young and 
handsome; he is true and manly; he is all that her lover 
should be; and with a sigh I have sat down telling myself 
that I was content, and to prove myself I have made him 
my friend. Millicent Luttrell, he is a true-hearted, noble 
fellow, and he loves you.” 

Millicent half rose, but sank back in her chair, and her 
face grew calm once more. 

“ I am no spy upon your actions or upon those of Christie 
Bayle, my child, but I know that he has been to you this 
morning; that he has asked you to be his wife, and that 
you have refused him.” 

“Has Mr. Bayle been so wanting in delicacy,” said 
Millicent, with a flush of anger, “that he has told you 
this?” 

“No, no. Pray do not think thus of him. He is too 
noble — too manly a fellow to be guilty of such a weakness. 
There are things, though, which a man cannot conceal 
from a jealous lover’s eyes, and this was one.” 

“Jealous — lover!” faltered Millicent. 

“ Yes,” he said; “ old as I am, my child, I must declare 
myself as your lover. This last rejection has given me 
liopes that may be wild — hopes which prompted me to speak 
as I do now.” 

“ Sir Gordon!” cried Millicent, rising from her seat; but 
he followed her example and took her hand. 

“You will listen to me, my child, patiently,” he said, in 
low, earnest tones; “ I must speak now. I know the dif- 
ference in our ages; no one better; but if the devotion of 
my life, the constant effort to make you happy, can bring 
the reward I ask, you shall not repent it. I know that 
some women would be tempted by the title and by my 
wealth, but I will not even think it of you. I know, too, that 
some would, in their coquetry, rejoice in bringing such a 
one as I to their feet, and then laugh at him for his pains. 
I fear nothing of the kind from you, Millicent, for I know 


54 THIS MAN^S WIF^. 

your sweet, candid nature. But tell me, first, do you love 
Christie Bayle!” 

“ As a sister might love a younger brother, who seemed 
to need her guiding hand,” said Millicent, calmly. 

“Ahl” 

It was a long sigh full of relief ; and then taking her 
hand once more. Sir Gordon said, softly : 

“ Millicent, my child, will you be my wife?” 

The look of pain and sorrow in her eyes gave him his 
answer before her lips parted to speak, and he dropped the 
hand and stood there with the carefully got up look of 
youthfuliiess or early manhood seeming to fade from him. 
In a few minutes he appeared to have aged twenty years; 
his brow grew full of lines, his eyes seemed sunken, and 
there was a hollowness of cheek that had been absent. 

He stretched out his hand to the table, and slowly sat 
down, bending forward till his arms rested upon his knees 
and his hands hung down nerveless between. 

“You need not speak, child,” he said, sadly. “It has 
all been one of my mistakes. I see! I see!” 

“ Sir Gordon, indeed, indeed I do feel honored!” 

“No, no! hush, hush!” he said, gently. “It is only nat- 
ural. It was very weak and foolish of me to ask you; but 
when this love blinds a man, he says and does foolish 
things that he repents when his eyes are open. Mine are 
open now — yes,” he said, with a sad smile, “ wide open; I 
can see it all. But, ” he added, quickly, as he rose, “ you 
are not angry with me, my dear?” 

‘ ‘ Angry ! Sir Gordon ! ’ ’ 

“No; you are not,” he said, taking her hand and pat- 
ting it softly. “Is it not strange that I could see you so 
clearly and well, and yet be so blind to myself? Ah, well, 
it is over now. I suppose no man is perfect, but in my 
conceit I did not think I could have been so weak. If I 
had not seen Bayle this morning and realized what had 
taken place, I should not have let my vanity get the better 
of me as I did.” 

“ All this is very, very painful to me. Sir Gordon.” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, quickly. “Come, then, 
this is our little secret, my child. You will keep it — the 
secret of my mistake? I do love you very much, but you 
have taught me what it is. I am getting old, and not so 
keen of wits as I was once upon a time. I thought it was 
man’s love for woman; but you are right, my dear, it is 
the love that a tender father might bear his child.” 

He took her unresistingly in his arms, and kissed her 
forehead reverently before turning away to walk to the 
window and stand gazing out blindly, till a firm step with 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


55 


loudly creaking boots was heard approaching, when Sir 
Gordon slowly drew away back into the room. 

Then the gate clanged, the bell rang, and a change came 
over Sir Gordon as Millicent ran to the drawing-room 
door. 

“Not at home, Thisbe, to any one,” she said, hastily. 
“I am particularly engaged.” 

She closed the door quietly, and came back into the 
room to stand there, now flushed, now pale. 

Sir Gordon took her hand softly and raised it to his lips. 

“Thank you, my child,” he said, tenderly. “It was 
ver}^ kind and thoughtful of you. I could not bear any 
one else to see me in my weakness.” 

He was smiling sadly in her face when he noticed her 
agitation, and at that moment the deep, rich tones of 
Hallam’s voice were heard speaking to Thisbe. 

The words were inaudible, but there was no mistaking 
the tones, and at that moment it was as if the last scale of 
Sir Gordon’s love-blindness had fallen away, and he let fall 
Millicent’s hand with a high-frightened look. 

“Millicent, my child!” he cried, in a sharp whisper. 
“ No, no! Tell me it isn’t that!” 

She raised her eyes to his, looking pale, and shrinking 
from him as if guilty of some sin, and he flushed with 
anger as he caught her by the wrist. 

“I give up — I have given up — every hope,” he said, 
hoarsely, ‘ ‘ but I cannot kill my love, even if it be an old 
man’s, and your happiness would be mine. Tell me, then 
— I have a right to know— tell me, Millicent, my child. 
It is not that?” 

Millicent’s shrinking aspect passed away, and a warm 
flush flooded her cheeks as she drew herself up proudly, 
and looked him bravely in the eyes. 

“ It is true, then?” he said, huskily. 

Millicent did not answer with her lips, but there was a 
proud assent in her clear eyes as she met her questioner’s 
unflinchingly, while the deep-toned murmur ceased, the 
firm step was heard upon the gravel, and the door closed. 

“ Then it is so?” he said, in a voice that was almost in- 
audible. “Hallam! Hallam! How true that they say 
love is blind? Oh, my child ! my child !” 

His last words were spoken beneath his breath, and he 
stood there, old and crushed by the fair woman in the full 
pride of her youth and beauty, both listening to the retir- 
ing step as Hallam went down the road. 

No words could have told so plainly as her eyes the secret 
of Millicent Luttrell’s heart. 


56 


THIS MAN^S WIFH, 


CHAPTER X. 

THISBE GIVES HER EXPERIENCE. 

Thisbe King was huffy; and when Thisbe King was 
huffy, she was hard. 

When Thisbe was huffy, and in consequence hard, it was 
because, as she expressed it, “Things is awkward;” and 
Avhen things were like that Thisbe went and made the beds. 
Of course the beds did not always want making; but more 
than once after an encounter with Mrs. Luttrell upon some 
domestic question, where it was all mild reproof on one 
side, acerbity on the other, Thisbe had been known to go 
up to the best bedroom, drag a couple of chairs forward, 
and relieve her mind by pulling the bed to pieces, snatch- 
ing quilt and blankets and sheets off over the chairs, and 
engaging in a furious fight with pillows, bolster, and 
feather-bed, hitting, punching, and turning, till shq was 
hot; and then, having thoroughly conquered the soft, in- 
animate objects and her own temper at the same time, the 
bed was smoothly remade, and Thisbe sighed. 

“ I shall have to part Avith Thisbe,” Mrs. Luttrell often 
used to say to husband and daughter; but matters went 
no further— perhaps she knew in her heart that Thisbe 
would not go. 

The beds had all been made, and there had been no en- 
counter with Mrs. Luttrell about any domestic matter 
relating to spreading a cloth in the drawing-room before 
the grate was blackleaded, or using up one loaf in the 
kitchen before a second was cut. In fact, Thisbe had been 
all smiles that morning, and had uttered a fews croaks in 
the kitchen, Avhich she did occasionally under the impres- 
sion that she was singing; but all at once she had rushed 
up-stairs like the Avind in winter when the front door was 
opened, and to carry out the simile, dashed back a bedroom 
door and closed it with a bang. 

This done, she had made a bed furiously — so furiously 
that the feathers flew from a weak corner, and had to be 
picked up and tucked in again. After this, red-faced and 
somewhat refreshed, Thisbe pulled a housewife out of a 
tremendous pocket, like a saddle-bag, threaded a needle, 
and sewed up the failing spot. 

“ It’s dreadful, that’s what it is!” she muttered at last, 
“and I’m going to speak my mind.” 

She did not speak her mind then, but went down to her 
work, and worked with her ears twitching like those of 
some animal on the qui vive for danger; and when Thisbe 
twitched her ears there was a corresponding action in the 
muscles about the corners of her mouth, Avhich added to 


THIS MAN'S WIFE, 5T 

the animal look, for it suggested that she might be disposed 
to bite. 

Some little time afterward she walked into the drawing- 
room, looking at its occupant in a soured way. 

“ Letter for you. Miss Milly,” she said. 

“ A note for me, Thisbe?” 

And Millicent took the missive, which Thisbe held with 
her apron to keep it clean. 

“ Mr. Bayle give it to me hissen.” 

Millicent’ s face grew troubled, and Thisbe frowned and 
left the room, shaking her head. 

The note Avas brief, and the tears stood in Millicent’s eyes 
as she read it twice: 

“ Pity me. Forgive me. I was mad.” 

“Poor boy!” she said, softly, as she refolded it and 
placed it in her desk, to stand there, thoughtful and with 
her brow Avrinkled. 

She was in the bay-window, and after standing there a 
few minutes her face changed, the troubled look passed 
away as a steady, regular step Avas heard on the gravel- 
path beyond the hedge. There was the faint, creaking 
noise, too, at every step of the hard, tight boots, and as their 
wearer passed, Millicent looked up and returned the salute; 
for a glossy hat Avas raised to her, and he who bowed passed 
on, leaving Millicent with her color slightly heightened and 
an eager look in her eyes. 

“ Any answer, miss?” 

Millicent turned quickly to see that Thisbe had returned. 

“Answer?” 

“ Yes, miss. The note.” 

“ Is Mr. Bayle waiting?” 

“ No, miss; but I thought you might want to send him 
one, and I’m going out and could leave it on the way.” 

“No, Thisbe, there is no answer.” 

“ Are you sure, miss?” 

“Sure, Thisbe? Of course.” 

Thisbe stood pulling the hem of her apron and making it 
snap. 

“ Oh, I would send him a line, miss. I like Mr. Bayle. 
For such a young man, the way he can preach is wonder- 
ful. But, Miss Milly,” she cried, with a sudden, passionate 
outburst, “please, don’t — don’t do that !” 

“What do you mean, Thisbe?” 

“ I can’t bear it, miss. It frightens and worries me.” 

“Thisbe!” 

“I can’t help it, miss. I’m a woman, too, and seven 
years older than you are. Don’t, please don’t, take any 


58 


THIS 3IAN’S WIFE, 


DOtice of me. There, don’t look cross at me, miss. I must 
speak when I see things going wrong.” 

” What do you mean?” cried Millicent, crimsoning. 

“ I mean I used to lead you about when you was a little 
thing, and keep you out o’ the puddles when the road was 
clatty, and though you never take hold o’ my hand now, I 
must speak when you’re going wrong.” 

” Thisbe, this is a liberty !” 

“I can’t help it. Miss Milly; I see him coming by in his 
creaking boots, and taking off his hat, and walking by 
here, when he has no business, and people talking about it 
all over the town.” 

‘‘And in this house. Thisbe, you are forgetting your 
place.” 

“Oh, no, I’m not, miss. I’m thinking about you and 
Mr. Hallam, miss. I know.” 

“Thisbe, mamma and I have treated you more as a 
friend than a servant; but ” 

“That’s it, miss, and I shouldn’t be a friend if I was to 
stand by and see you walk right into trouble without a 
word.” 

“Thisbe!” 

“I don’t care. Miss Milly, I will speak. Don’t have nowt 
to do wi’ him; he’s too handsome; never you have nowt to 
do wi’ a handsome man.” 

Millicent’s ordinarily placid face assumed a look foreign 
to it — a look of anger and firmness combined; but she com- 
l)ressed her lips, as if to keep back words she would rather 
not utter, and then smiled once more. 

“Ah, you may laugh. Miss Milly; but it’s nothing to 
laugh at. And there’s Mr. Bayle, too. You’re having let- 
ters from he.” 

Millicent’s face changed again; but she mastered her an- 
noyance, and, laying her hands upon Thisbe’ s shoulder, 
said, with a smile: 

“I don’t want to be angry with you, Thisbe, but you 
have grown into a terribly prejudiced woman.” 

“ Enough to make me, seeing what I do. Miss MiUy.” 

“ Come, come, you must not talk like this.” 

“ Ah, now you’re beginning to coax again, as you always 
did when you wanted your own way; but it’s of no use, 
my dear— I don’t like him, and I never slmll. I’d rather 
you’d marry old Sir Gordon. He is nice, though he do 
dye his hair. I don’t like him, and there’s an end of it.” 

“Nonsense, Thisbe!” 

“No, it isn’t nonsense. I don’t like him, and I never 
shall.” 

“ But why? Have you any good reason?” 

“ Yes,” said Thisbe, with a snort, 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


59 


“ What is it?'’ 

“ I told you before. He’s so horrid handsome.” 

” Why, you dear, prejudiced, silly old thing!” cried Mil- 
licent, whose eyes were sparkling and cheeks flushed. 

“I don’t care if I am. I don’t like handsome men: 
they’re good for nowt.” 

” Why, Thisbe!” 

‘*1 don’t care, they aren’t. My soldier fellow was that 
handsome it made you feel wicked, you were so puffed out 
with pride.” 

“ And so you were in love once, Thisbe?” 

“ Why, of course I was. Think I’m made o’ stone, miss? 
Enough to make any poor girl be in love when a handsome 
fellow like that, with mustache-i-ohs, and shiny eyes, . and 
larnseer uniform, making him look like a blue robin red- 
breast, came and talked as he did to a silly young goose, 
such as I was then. 1 couldn’t help it. Why, the way his 
clothes fitted him was enough to win any girl’s heart — 
him with such a beautiful figure, too 1 He looked as if he 
couldn’t be got out of ’em wi’out unpicking.” 

“Think of our Thisbe falling in love with a soldier!” 
cried Millicent, laughing, for there was a wild feeling of 
joy in her heart that was intoxicating, and made her e> es 
flash with excitement. 

“Ah, it’s very funny, isn’t it?” said Thisbe, with a 
vicious shake of her apron. “But it’s true. Handsome 
as handsome he was, and talked so good that he set me 
thinking always about how nice I must be. Stuffed me 
out wi’ pride; and what did he do then?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know, Thisbe.” 

“Borrered three pun seven and sixpence of my savings, 
and took my watch, as I bought at Horncastle fair, to be 
reggilated, and next time I see my gentleman he was walk- 
ing out wi’ Dixon’s cook. Handsome is as handsome does. 
Miss Milly, so you take warning by me.” 

“ There, I will not be cross with you, Thisbe,” said Mil- 
licent, smiling. “ I know you mean well.” 

“ And you’ll send an answer to Mr. Bayle, miss?” 

“There is no answer required, Thisbe,” said Millicent, 
gravely. 

“And Mr. Hallam, miss?” 

“Thisbe,” said Millicent, gravely, “I want you always 

to be our old faithful friend as well as servant, but ’ ’ 

She held up a warning finger and was silent. 

Thisbe’s lips parted to say a few angry words, but she 
flounced round, and made the door speak for her in a sharp 
bang; after which she rushed up-stairs with the intent of 
having a furious encounter with a bed ; but she changed 
her mind, and on reaching her own room sat down, put 


i ' I 


60 THIS MAJS^S WIFE. 

her apron to her eyes, and had what she called “a good 
cry.” 

“Poor Miss Milly?” she sobbed at last; “she’s just 
about as blind as I was, and she’ll only find it out when 
it’s too late.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

ANOTHER EVENING AT THE DOCTOR’S. 

“But — but I don’t like it, my dear,” said Mrs. Luttrell, 
wiping her eyes, and looking up at the doctor, as he stood 
rubbing his hands, to get rid of the harshness produced by 
freshly dug earth used for potting. 

“ Neither do I,” said the doctor, calmly. 

“ But why should she choose him of all men?” sighed 
Mrs. Luttrell. “I never thought Millicent the girl to be 
taken by a man only for his handsome face. I was not 
when I was young!” 

“ Which is saying that I was precious ugly, eh?” 

“Indeed you were the handsomest man in Castor!” cried 
Mrs. Luttrell, proudly; “ but you were the cleverest, too, 
and— dear, dear! — what a little while ago it seems!” 

“ Gently, gently, old lady!” said the doctor, tenderly 
kissing the wrinkled forehead that was raised toward him. 
“Well, Heaven’s blessing be upon her, my dear, and may 
her love be as evergreen as ours.” 

Mrs. Luttrell rose and laid her head upon his shoulder, 
and stood there, with a happy, peaceful look upon her 
pleasant face, although it^ was still wet with tears. 

“ That’s what I’m afraid of,” she sighed, “and it would 
be so sad.” . 

“Ah, wife!” said the doctor, walking slowly up and 
down the room, with his arm about Mrs.''Luttreirs waist, 
“it’s one of nature’s mysteries. We can’t rule these 
things. Look at Milly. Some girls begin love-making at 
seventeen, ah, and before ! and here she went calmly on to 
foLir-and-twenty untouched, and finding her pleasure in 
her books and music and home life. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ As good and affectionate a girl as ever breathed !” cried 
Mrs. Luttrell. 

“Yes, my dear; and then comes the man, and he has 
but to hold up his finger and say ‘Come,’ and it is done.” 

“ But she might have had Sir Gordon; and he is rich, 
and then it would have been Lady Bourne!” 

lie was too old, my dear, too old. She looked upon 
him as a child would look up to her father.” 

“ Well, then, Mr. Bayle, the best of men, I’m sure; and 
he IS well off too. ” 

“Too young, old lady, too young. I’ve watched them 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


61 


together hundreds of times. Milly always petted and 
patronized him, and treated him as if he were a younger 
brother of wliom she was very fond.” 

“Heigh-ho! Oh dear me!” sighed Mrs. Luttrell. “But 
I ^lop’t like him — this Mr. Hallam. I never thought when 
Miliicent was a baby that she would enter into an engage- 
ment like this. Can’t we break it off?’’ 

The doctor shook his head. “I don’t like it, mother. 
Hallam is the last man T should have chosen for her, but 
we must make the best of it. He has won her; and she is 
not a child, but a calm, thoughtful woman.” 

“ Yes, that’s the worst of it,” sighed Mrs. Luttrell; “she 
is so thoughtful, and calm, and dignified that I can never 
look upon her now as my little girl. I always seem to be 
talking to a superior woman, whose judgment I must re- 
spect. But this is very sad!” 

“ There, there! we must not treat it like that, old lady. 
Perhaps we have grown to be old and prejudiced. I own I 
have.” 

“Oh, no, no, my dear!” 

“Yes, but I have. As soon as this seemed to be a cer- 
tainty I began to try to find a hole in the fellow’s coat.” 

“In Mr, Hallam’s coat, love? Oh, you wouldn’t find 
that.” 

“No,” said the doctor, dryly, as he smiled down in the 
gentle old face, “notone. There, there! you must let it 
go ! Now then, old lady, you must smile and look happy, 
here’s Milly coming down.” 

Mrs. Luttrell shook her head, and her wistful look seemed 
to say that she would never look happy again ; but as Mil- 
iicent entered, in plain white satin, cut in the high-waisted, 
tight fashion of the period, and with a necklet of pearls 
for her only ornament, a look of pride and pleasure came 
into the mother’s face, and she darted a glance at her hus- 
band, which he caught and interpreted, “ I will think only 
of her.” 

“Oh, Milly!” she cried, “that necklace! what lovely 
pearls!” 

“ Eobert’s present, dear. I was to wear them to-night. 
Are they not lovely?” 

“ Almost as lovely as their setting,” said the doctor to 
himself, as he kissed his child tenderly. “Why, Milly,” 
he said aloud, “you look as happy as a bird!” 

She laid her cheek upon his breast, and remained silent 
for a few moments, with half-closed eyes. Then, raising 
her head, she kissed him, lovingly. 

“I am, father dear,” she said, in a low voice, full of the 
calm and peaceful joy that filled her breast, “I am, 


02 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


father; I am, mother— so happy!” She paused, and then, 
laughing gently, added, “So happy, I feel ready to cry.” 

It was to be a quiet evening, to which a few friends were 
invited; but it was understood as being an open acknowl- 
ment of Millicent’s engagement to Robert Hallam, and in 
this spirit the visitors came. 

Miss Heathery generally arrived last at the social gather- 
ings. It gave her entry more importance, and, at her 
time of life, she could not afford to dispense with adventi- 
tious aids. But there was the scent of matrimony in this 
little party, and she was dressed an hour too soon, and ar- 
rived first in the well-lit drawing-room. 

“ My darling !” she whispered, as she kissed Millicent. 

That was all; but her voice and look were full of pity 
for the victim chosen for the next sacrifice, and she turned 
away toward the piano to get out her handkerchief and 
drop a parting tear. It was a big tear, one of so real an 
emotional character that it brimmed over, fell on her cheek- 
bone, and hopped into her reticule just as she was drawing 
open the top, and was lost in the depths within. 

There was as much sorrow for herself as emotion on 
Millicent Luttrell’s behalf. Had not Millicent robbed her 
of the chance of an offer? Mr. Hallam might never have 
proposed : but still he might. 

Suddenly her heart throbbed, for the next guest arrived 
also unusually early, and as Thisbe held open the door for 
him to pass, hope told again her flattering tale to the tune 
that Sir Gordon might have known that she, Miss Heath- 
ery was coming early, and had followed. 

The hopeful feeling did not die at once, but it received a 
shock as Sir Gordon entered, looking very bright and 
young, to shake hands warmly with the doctor and Mrs. 
Luttrell, to bow to Miss Heathery, and then turn to Milli- 
cent, who in spite of her natural firmness was a good deal 
agitated. She had nerved herself for these meetings, and 
striven to keep down their importance; but, now the night 
had come, she was fain to confess that hers was a difficult 
task, to meet two rejected lovers, and bear herself easily 
before them with the husband of her first choice. 

And now here was the first shock to be sustained ; so 
forcing herself to be calm, she advanced with extended 
hand. 

“Oh,” whispered Sir Gordon, in tones that only reached 
Millicent’s ear, “too bad — too bad! Supplanted twice. 
But there, I accept my fate.” As be spoke, he drew Milli' 
cent toward him, and kissed her forehead with tender rev- 
erence. “An old man’s kiss, my dear, to the child of his 
very dear friends. God bless you! May you be very 
happy with the man of your choice. May I?” He droppe(l 


THIS 3IAN.’S WIFE. 


63 


her hand to draw from his breast a string of large single 
I)earls, so regular and perfect a match that they must have 
cost a goodly sum. For answer Millicent turned pale as she 
bent toward him and he clasped the string about her neck. 
“ There,” he said, smiling, ” I should have made a differ- 
ent choice if I had known.” 

Millicent would have spoken, but her voice failed, and to 
add to her agony at that moment, Bayle came in, looking, 
as she saw at a glance, pale and somehow changed. 

“He will do or say something absurd,” she said to her- 
self as she bit her lip, and strove for composure. Then the 
blood seemed to rush to her heart, and a pang shot through 
her as she realized, more than if he had said a thousand 
things, how deeply her refusal had influenced his life. 

Only four months since that day when she had told him 
that they could be true friends, she speaking as an elder 
sister to one she looked upon as a boy. And now she felt 
ready to ask, who was this calm, grave man who took her 
hand without hesitation, so perfectly at ease in his gentle- 
manly courtesy, and who had so thoroughly fallen into the 
place she had bidden him take? 

“I see,” he said, with a smile, “I shall not be out of 
order, my dear Miss Luttrell. Will you accept this little 
offering too?” 

He was holding a brilliant diamond ring in his hand. 

For answer Millicent drew her long glove from her soft 
white fingers, and he took it gravely, and, in the presence 
of all, slipped on the ring, bending over it afterward to 
kiss her hand, with the chivalrous delicacy of some courtier 
of a by- gone school; then, raising his eyes to hers, he said, 
softlv, “Millicent Luttrell, our friendship must never 
fail.” 

Before she could say a word of thanks he had turned to 
speak to Mrs. Luttrell, giving way to Sir Gordon Bourne, 
who began chatting to her pleasantly, while her eyes fol- 
lowed Christie Bayle’s easy gestures, wondering the while 
at the change in his manner, but unable to realize the 
agony of soul that he had suffered in this his first great 
battle with self before he had obtained the mastery, 
wounded and changed, stepping at once, as it were, from 
boyhood to the position of a thoughtful man. 

Hallam soon arrived, smiling and agreeable, and it was 
piteous to see Mrs. LuttrelTs efforts to be very warm and 
friendly to him. 

Millicent noted it, and also that her father was quiet to- 
ward his son-in-law elect. She watched, too, the meeting 
between Hallam and Bayle, the former being as nearly 
offensive as his gentlemanly manner would allow; the lat- 
ter warm, grave and friendly. 


64 


THIS 3IAN’S WIFE, 


“ Has Bayle been unwell?” said Ilallani, the first time he 
was alone with Millicf^nt. 

“ I have not heard,” she replied, glancing at the curate, 
and wondering more and more, as the evening went on, at 
the change. 

Among others, the Trampleasures arrived, and to Miss 
Heathery’s grief, Mrs. Tram pleasure pretty well monopo- 
lized Bayle’s remarks, or else made him listen to her own. 

“And what do you think of this engagement, Mr. 
Bayle?” she said, in so audible a voice that he was afraid 
it would be overheard. 

“They make a very handsome couple,” he replied. 

“Ah yes, handsome enough, I dare say; but good looks 
will not fill mouths. I wonder L. has allowed it. Mr. 
Hallam is all very well, but he is, I may say, our servant ; 
and if we, who are above him, find so much trouble to 
make both ends meet, I don’t know what he’ll do.” 

“But Mr. Hallam has a very good salary, I presume.” 

“I tell T. it is too much, and old Mr. Dixon and Sir 
Gordon might have taken off a hundred and let us draw it. 
I don’t approve of the match at all.” 

“Indeed, Mrs. Tram pleasure !” said Bayle, who felt hurt 
at hearing her speak like this. 

“Yes; I’m Millicent’s aunt, and I think I ought to have 
been consulted more— but there, it is of no use to speak to 
my brother; and as to Millicent, she always did just as 
she liked with her mother! Poor Kitty is very weak!” 

“ I always find Mrs. Luttrell very sweet and motherly.” 

“Not so motherly as I am, Mr. Bayle,” said the lady, 
bluntly. “Ah, it’s a great stress on a woman — a large 
family — especially when the father takes things so coolly. 
I shouldn’t speak to every one like this, you know, but 
one can talk to one’s clergyman. Do you like Mr. Hal- 
lam?” 

“ I find him very gentlemanly.” 

“Ah, yes, he’s very gentlemanly. Well, I’m sure I 
hope they’ll be happy; but there’s always something in 
married life, and you do well to keep out of it ; but of course 
you are so young yet.” 

“ Yes,” he said, with a grave, old-looking smile, “ I am 
so young yet.” 

“You don’t know what a family is, Mr. Bayle. There’s 
always something; when it isn’t measles it’s scarlatina, 
and when it isn’t scarlatina it’s boots and shoes.” 

“ Oh, but children are a deal of comfort, Sophia,” said 
the doctor, coming up after whispering to Mrs. Luttrell 
that his sister looked grumpy. 

“Some children may be, Joseph— mine are not,” sighed 
Mrs. Trampleasure, and the doctor went back to his wife. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 65 

“Ah, Mr. Bayle, if I were to tell you half of the troubles 
I’ve been through I should harass you.” 

” Kitty,” said the doctor, ” I want everything to go well 
to night. Try and coax Sophia away; she’s forcing her 
doldrums on Mr. Bayle.” 

“ But how am I to get her away, dear? You know what 
she is.” 

‘ ‘ Try to persuade her to taste the brandy cherries, or 
we shall be having her in tears. I’ll come and help you.” 

They walked back to where Mrs. Trampleasure was still 
talking away hard in a querulous voice. 

” Ah! you’ve come back, Joseph,” she said, cutting short 
her remarks to the curate to return to her complaint to her 
brother. ” I was sa}'ing that some children are a pleasure, 
but it did not seem as if you could listen to me.” 

“My dear Sophia, I’ll listen to you all night, but Kitty 
wants you to give your opinion about some brandy cher- 
ries.” 

“My opinion?” said the lady, loudly. “I have no 
opinion. I never taste such luxuries.” 

Millicent could not help hearing a portion of her aunt’s 
querulous remarks, and, out of sheer pity for one of the 
recipients, she turned to her Uncle Trampleasure, who al- 
ways kept on the other side of the room. 

“Uncle dear,” she said, “aunt is murmuring so. Do 
try and stop it.” 

“Stop it, my dear?” he said, smiling sadly. “Ah, if 
vou knew your aunt as well as I do you would never check 
her murmurs ; they carry off her ill-temper. No, no, my 
dear, it would be dangerous to stop it. I always let it go 
on.” 

There was no need to check Mrs. Trampleasure after all. 
Mr. Bayle threw himself into the breach, and made her 
forget her own troubles by consulting her about some 
changes that he pro]30sed making in the parish. That 
changed the course of her thoughts, and in the intervals of 
the music, and often during the progress of some song, she 
alluded to different matters that had given her annoyance 
ever since she had been a girl. 

It was not an agreeable duty, that of keeping Mrs. 
Trampleasure amused, but Millicent rewarded him with a 
grateful smile, and he was content. 

There was a pleasant little supper that was announced 
unpleasantly just as Miss Heathery had consented to sing 
again, and was telling the assembly in a birdlike voice how 
gayly the troubadour touched his guita— h~ah, as he was 
hastening home from the war. 

“ Supper’s ready,” said a loud, harsh voice, which cut 
like an arrow right through Miss Heathery’s best note. 


66 


mis MAN^S WIFE. 


‘‘Now you shouldn’t, Thisbe,” said Mrs. Luttrell, in 
tones of mild reproach, but the reproof was not heard, for 
the door was sharply closed. 

“It is only our Thisbe’s way, Mr. Bayle,” whispered 
Mrs. Luttrell; “ please don’t noticje it. Excellent servant, 
but so soon put out.” 

She nodded confidentially, and then stole out on tiptoe, 
so as not to interrupt Miss Heathery, who went on — “sing- 
ing from Palestine hither I come, ’ ’ to the end. 

Then words of reproof and sharp retort could be heard 
outside; and after awhile poor Mrs. Luttrell came back, 
looking very red, to lean over the curate from behind the 
sofa, brooding over him as if he were a favorite chicken. 

“I don’t like finding fault with the servants, Mr. Bayle. 
Did you hear me?” 

“ I could not help hearing,” he said, smiling. 

“ She does provoke me so,” continued Mrs. Luttrell, in 
a soft, clucking way that quite accorded with her brood- 
ing. “I know I shall have to discharge her.” 

“ She does not like a little extra trouble perhaps. Com- 
pany. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, no, it is not that,” said Mrs. Luttrell. “She’ll 
work night and day for one if she’s in a good temper, but 
the fact is, Mr. Bayle, she does not like this engagement, 
and quite hates Mr. Hallam.” 

Bayle drew his breath hard, but he turned a grave, smil- 
ing face to his hostess. 

“ That’s the reason, I’m sure, why she is so awkward to- 
night, my dear — I beg pardon, I mean Mr. Bayle,” said the 
old lady, coloring as ingenuously as a girl, “but she pre- 
tends it is about the potatoes.” 

“Potatoes?” said Bayle, who was eager to divert her 
thoughts. 

“Yes. You see the doctor is so proud of his potatoes, 
and I was going to please him by having some roasted for 
supper and brought up in a napkin; but Thisbe took of- 
fense directly, and said that cold chicken and hot potatoes 
would be ridiculous, and she has been in a huff ever 
since.” 

Just then the door opened and the person in question en- 
tered, to come straight to Mrs. Luttrell, who began to 
tremble and look at the curate for help. 

“ There’s something gone wrong,” she whispered. 

“Can I speak to you, please, mum?” said Thisbe, glaring 
at her severely. 

“Well, I don’t know, Thisbe, I ” 

‘ Let me go out and speak to Thisbe, mamma, dear,” 
said Millicent, who had crossed the room, divining what 
was wrong. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


67 


Oh, if you would, my dear, ” said Mrs. Luttrell, eagerly; 
and Thisbe was compelled to retreat, her young mistress 
following her out of the room. 

“ That’s very good of her, Mr. Bayle,” said Mrs. Luttrell, 
with a satisfied sigh. “ Millicent can always manage 
Thisbe. She has such a calm, dignified way with her. & 
you know, Mr. Bayle, she is the only one who can manage 
her aunt Trampleasure when she begins to murmur. Ah, 
1 don’t know what I shall do when she has gone.” 

“You will have the satisfaction of knowing that she is 
happy with the man she loves. ” 

“ I don’t know, Mr. Bayle, I Oh, dear me, I ought 

to be ashamed of myself for speaking like this. Hush ! 
here she is.” 

In effect Millicent came back into the room to where her 
another was sitting. 

“Only a little domestic difficulty, Mr. Bayle. Mamma, 
dear, it is all smoothed away, and Thisbe is very peni- 
tent.” 

“ And she will bring up the roast potatoes in the napkin, 
my dear?” 

“Yes,” cried Millicent, laughing merrily, “she has re- 
tracted all her opposition, and we are to have two dishes of 
papa’s best.” 

“In napkins, my dear?” cried Mrs. Luttrell, eagerly; 
“ both in napkins?” 

“ Yes, mamma, in the whitest napkins she can find.” 

She glanced at Christie Bayle’s grave countenance, and 
felt her heart smite her for being so happy and joyous in 
his presence. 

“ Don’t think us childish, Mr. Bayle,” she said, gently. 
“ It is to please my father. ” 

He rose and stood by her side for a moment or two. 
“ Childish?” he said, in a low voice, “as if I could think 
such a thing of you !” 

Millicent smiled her thanks, and crossed the room to 
where Hallam was watching her. The next minute supper 
was again announced— simple, old-fashioned supper — and 
Millicent went out on Hallam’s arm. 

“You are going to take me in, Mr. Bayle? Well, I’m 
sure I’d rather,” said Mrs. Luttrell, “and I can then see, 
my dear, that you have a good supper. There, I’m saying 
‘ my dear ’ to you again !” 

“It is because I seem so young, Mrs. Luttrell,” replied 
Bayle, gravely. 

“Oh, ‘no, my dear,” said Mrs. Luttrell, innocently; “it 
was because you seemed to come among us so like a son, 
and took to the doctor’s ways with his garden, and were 
so nice with Millicent. I used to think that perhaps you 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


68 

two might Oh, dear me,” she cried, checking herself 

suddenly, “ what a tongue I have got! Pray don’t take 
any notice of what I say 1’ ’ 

There was no change in Christie Bayle’s countenance, 
for the smile bid the pang he suffered as he took in the 
pleasant, garrulous old lady to supper; but that night he 
paced his room till daybreak, fighting a bitter fight, and 
asking for strength to bear the agony of his heart. 


CHAPTER XII. 

JAMES THICKENS IS MYSTERIOUS. 

“I THINK, previous to taking this step, Sir Gordon, I 
may ask if you and Mr. Dixon are quite satisfied? I be- 
lieve the books show a state of prosperity.” 

“That does us credit, Mr. Hallam,” said Sir Gordon, 
quietly. ” Yes, Mr. Dixon bids me say that he is perfectly 
satisfied — eh, Mr. Trampleasure?” 

“Quite, Sir Gordon— more than satisfied,” replied Mr. 
Trampleasure, who was standing with his hands beneath 
his coat-tails, balancing himself on toe and heel, and bow- 
ing, as he spoke, with an air that he believed to be very 
impressive. 

“Then, before we close this little meeting, I suppose it 
only remains for me to ask you if you have any questions 
to ask of the firm, any demands to make?” 

Hallam rose from behind the table covered with books 
and balance-sheets in the manager’s room of the bank, 
placed his hand in his breast, and in a quiet, dignified 
way, replied: 

“ Questions to ask. Sir Gordon— demands to make? No; 
only to repeat my former question. Are you satisfied?” 

“I did reply to that, ” said Sir Gordon, Avho looked 
brown and sunburnt, consequent upon six weeks’ yachting 
in the Mediterranean; “ but have you no other question or 
demand to make previous to your marriage?” 

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Trampleasure— “excuse me. I 
want to say one word. Hem! hem! — I er— I er ” 

“What is it, Trampleasure?” said Sir Gordon. 

“It is in regard to a question I believe Mr. Hallam is 
about to put to the firm. I may say that Mrs. Trampleas- 
ure drew my attention to ihe matter, consequent upon 
a rumor in the town in connection with Mr. Hallam’ s mar- 
riage.” 

Hallam raised his eyebrows and smiled. 

“ Have they settled the date?” he said, pleasantly. 

“No, sir, not that I am aware of; but Mrs. Trampleasure 
has been given to understand that Mr. Hallam, upon his 
marriage, will wish, and is about to send in a request for, 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


69 


the apartments connected with this bank that I have al- 
ways occupied. It would be a great inconvenience to Mrs. 
Trampleasure with our family— I mean to me— to have to 
move.” 

“My dear Sir Gordon,” said Hallam, interrupting, 
“allow me to set Mr. Trampleasure at rest. I have taken 
the little Manor House, and have given orders for the fur- 
niture.” 

“There, Trampleasure,” said Sir Gordon, “don’t take 
any notice of gossips for the future.” * 

“Hem! I will not; but Mr. Gemp is so well informed 
generally ” 

“ That he is naturally wrong sometimes,” said Sir Gor- 
don. “By the way, are they ever going to put that man 
under the pump? Now, Mr. Hallam, have you anything 
more to ask?” 

“Certainly not. Sir Gordon,” replied the manager, 
stiffly. “ I understand your allusion, of course; but I have 
only to say that I look upon my engagement here as a com- 
mercial piece of business to be strictly adhered to, and that 
I know of nothing more degrading to a man than making 
every change in his life an excuse for asking an increase of 
salary.” 

“ And you do not wish to take a holiday trip on the oc- 
casion of your wedding?” 

“No, Sir Gordon.” 

“ But the lady?” 

“ Miss Luttrell knows that she is about to marry a busi- 
ness man, Sir Gordon, and accepts her fate,” said Hallam, 
with a smile. 

“ Of course you can take a month. I’m sure Trampleas- 
ure and Thickens would manage everything in your ab- 
sence.” 

“ Excuse me, Sir Gordon. I have no doubt whatever that 
everything would run like a repeater- watch in my absence ; 
but m accepting the responsibility of manager of this bank, 
I could not feel comfortable to run away just in our busiest 
time. Later on I may take a trip.” 

“ Just as you like, Hallam — just as you like. Then that 
is all we have to do?” 

“Everything, Sir Gordon. Yes, Mr. Thickens, I will 
come;” for the clerk had tapped at the door and summoned 
him into the bank. 

“ Dig for you, Trampleasure, about the salary, eh?” said 
Sir Gordon, as soon as they were alone. 

“And in very bad taste, too,” said Trampleasure, 
stiffly. 

“Ah, well, he’s a good manager,” said Sir Gordon. 


70 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ How I hate figures! They’ll be buzzing in my head for 
a week.” 

He rose, and walked to the glass to begin arranging his 
cravat and shirt-collar, buttoning the bottom of his coat, 
and pulling down his buff vest so that it could be well seen. 
Then, adjusting his hat at a correct gentlemanly angle and 
tapping the tassels of his Hessian boots to make them 
swing free, he bade Trampleasure good-morning and saun- 
tered down the street, twirling his cane with all the grace 
of an old beau. 

“ I don’t like that man,” he said to himself , “and I never 
did ; but his management of the bank is superb. Only one 
shaky loan this last six months, and he thinks we shall 
clear ourselves if we wait before we sell. 

“ Bah! I’m afraid I’m as great a humbug as the rest of 
the world. If he had not won little Millicent, I should have 
thought him a very fine fellow, I dare say.” 

He strolled on toward the doctor’s, thinking as he 
went. 

“ No, I don’t think I should have liked him,” he mused. 
“ He’s gentlemanly and polished; but too gentlemanly and 
polished. It is like a mask and suit that to my mind do 
not fit. Then, hang it! how did he manage to win that 
girl? 

“Cleverness. That calm air of superiority; that bold 
deference, and his good looks. I’ve seen it all; he has let 
her go on talking in her clever way — and she is clever ; 
and then when he has thought she has gone on long enough 
he has checked her with a touch of the tiller, and thrown 
all the wind out of her sails, leaving her swinging on the 
ocean of conjecture. Just what she would like: made to 
feel that, clever as she is, he could be her master when and 
where he pleased. Yes, that is it, and I suppose I hate 
him for it. No, no; it would not have been right, even if 
I could have won. I would not be prejudiced against him 
more than I can help; but I’m afraid we shall never be 
any closer than we are.” 

That afternoon Mr. Hallam, of the bank, was exceedingly 
busy ; so was James Thickens, at the counter, now giving, 
now receiving and canceling and booking checks or greasy 
notes, some of whicJi were almost too much worn to be de- 
ciphered. 

The time went on, and it was the hour for closing the 
doors. Thickens had had to go in and out of the manager’s 
room several times, and Hallam was always busy writing 
letters; he looked up, and answered questions, or gave in- 
structions, and then went on again, while each time, when 
James Thickens came out, he looked more uneasy ; that is 
to say, to any one who thoroughly understood James 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


71 


Thickens, he would have looked uneasy. To a stranger he 
would only have seemed peculiar, for involuntarily at 
such times he had a habit of moving his scalp very slowly, 
drawing his hair down over his forehead, while his eye- 
brows rose up to meet it. Then, with mechanical regu- 
larity, they separated again; and all the while his eyes 
were fixed, and seemed to be gazing at something that was 
not there. 

“You need not wait. Thickens, ” said Hallam, opening 
his door at length. “ I want to finish a few letters.” 

The clerk rose and left the place after his customary 
walk round with keys, and the transferring of certain 
moneys to the safe, and as soon as he was gone, Hallam 
locked his door communicating with the house, and began 
to busy himself in the safe, examining docketed securities, 
ticking them off, arranging and rearranging, hour after 
hour. 

And during those hours James Thickens seemed to be 
prosecuting a love affair, for, instead of going home to his 
tea and gold-fish, he walked down the market-place for 
some distance, turned sharp back, knocked at a door and 
was admitted. Then old Gemp, Avho had been Sweeping 
his narrow horizon, put on his hat and walked across to 
Mrs. Pinet, who was as usual watering her geraniums, and 
hunting for withered leaves that did not exist. 

“ Two weddings, Mrs. P. !” he said, with a leer. 

“ Lor’, Mr. Gemp, what do you mean?” she exclaimed. 

“Two Aveddings, ma’am. Your Mr. Hallam first, and 
Thickens directly after. No more bachelors at the bank, 
ma’am.” 

“ Why, you don’t mean to say that Mr. Thickens — oh, 
dear me!” 

“But I do mean to say it, ma’am. He’s dropped in at 
Miss Heathery’s as coolly as can be, and has hung his hat 
up behind the door.” 

“ You don’t say sol” 

“Oh, yes, I do. It’s her doing. Going there four or 
five times a Aveek to cash checks; and he has grown reck- 
less. Let’s Avait till he comes out.” 

“Perhaps, then,” said Mrs. Pinet, primly, “people may 
begin saying things about me.” 

“There’ll be no one to say it,” said Gemp, innocently. 
“ Let’s see how long he stops. I can’t very well from my 
place.” 

“I couldn’t think of such a thing,” said Mrs. Pinet, 
grandly. “Mr. Hallam will be in directly too. No, Mr. 
Gemp. I’m no watcher of my neighbors’ affairs;” and she 
went in- doors. 

“ Very Av ell, madam, Ve—r?/ well,” said Gemp. “We 


72 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


shall see;” and he walked back home to stand in his door- 
way for three hours before he saw Thickens come from 
where he had ensconced himself behind Miss Heathery’s 
curtain, with his eyes fixed upon the bank. 

At the end of those three hours Mr. Hallam passed, look- 
ing very thoughtful, and five minutes later James Thickens 
went home to his gold-fish and tea. 

“Took care Hallam didn’t see him;” chuckled Gemp, 
rubbing his hands. “Oh, the artfulness of these people! 
Thinks he has as good a right to marry as Hallam himself. 
Well, why not? Make him more staid and solid, better 
able to take care of the deeds and securities, and pounds, 
shilling, and pence, and— halloo! halloo! halloo! What’s 
the meaning of this?” 

This was the appearance of a couple coming from the di- 
rection of the doctor’s house, and the couple were Miss 
Heathery, who had been spending a few hours with Milli- 
cent— in other words, seeing her preparations for the wed- 
ding— and Sir Gordon Bourne, who was going in her direc- 
tion and walked home with her. 

“ Why, Thickens didn’t see her after all!” 

No; James Thickens had not seen her, and Miss Heathery 
had not seen James Thickens. 

“Who?” she cried, as soon as Sir Gordon had ceremo- 
niously bidden her “Good-night,” raising his curly- brim- 
med hat and putting it back. 

“Mr. Thickens, ma’am,” cried the little maid, eagerly; 
“ and when I told him you was out, he said, might he wait, 
and I showed him in the parlor.” 

“And he’s there now?” whispered Miss Heathery, who 
began tremblingly to take off the very old pair of gloves 
she kept for evening wear, the others being safe in her 
reticule. 

“No, ma’am, please, he has been gone these ten min- 
utes.” 

“But what did he say?” cried Miss Heathery, queru- 
lously. 

“Said he wanted to see you particular, ma’am.” 

“Oh, dear me; oh, dear me!” sighed Miss Heathery. 
“Was ever anything so unfortunate? How could I tell 
that he would come when I was out?” 


CHAPTER XHI. 

MR. HALLAM HAS A VISITOR. 

Mysteries were painful to old Gemp. If any one had 
propounded a riddle, and gone away without supplying the 
answer, he would have been terribly aggrieved. 

He was still frowning, and trying to get over the mys^ 


THIS MAN'S WIFH. 


n 

tery of why James Thickens should be at Miss Heathery’s 
when that lady was out, and his ideas were turning in the 
direction of the little maid, when a wholesome stimulus 
was given to his thoughts by the arrival of the London 
coach, the alighting of whose passengers he had hardly 
once missed seeing for years. 

Hurrying up to the front of the George, he was just in 
time to see a dashing-looking young fellow, who had just 
alighted from the box-seat, stretching his legs, and beating 
his boots with a cane. He had been giving orders for his 
little valise to be carried into the house, and was staring 
about him in the half-light, when he became aware of the 
fact that old Gemp was watching him curiously. 

He involuntarily turned away; but seeming to master 
himself, he turned back, and said, sharply, “Where does 
Mr. Hallam live?” 

“Mr. Hallam!” cried Gemp, eagerly; “bank’s closed 
hours ago.” 

“ I didn’t ask for the bank. Where is Mr. Hallam’s 
private residence?” 

“Well,” said Gemp, rubbing his hands and laughing 
unpleasantly, “that’s it — the ‘Little Manor,’ as he calls it; 
but it’s a big name, isn't it?” 

“Oh, he lives there, does he?” said the visitor, glancing 
curiously at the ivy-covered house across the way. 

“Not yet,” said Gemp. “That’s where he’s going to live 
when ” 

“He’s married. I know. Now, then, old Solomon, if 
you can answer a plain question, where does he live now?” 

“ Mrs. Pinet’s house, yonder on the left, where the porch 
stands out, and the flower-pots are in the window.” 

“Humph! hasn’t moved, then. Let’s see,” muttered 
the visitor, “that’s where I took the flower- pot to throw 
at the dog. No; that’s the house.” 

“Can I ” began Gemp, insidiously. 

“ No, thank ye. Good-evening, ” said the visitor. “You 
can tell ’em I’ve come. Ta, ta! Gossiping old fool!” he 
added to himself, as he walked quickly down the street; 
while, after staring after him for a few minutes, Gemp 
turned sharply on his heel and made for Gorringe’s— -Mr. 
Gorringe being the principal tailor. 

Mr. Gorringe’s day’s work was done; consequently his 
legs were uncrossed, and he was seated in a Christian-like 
manner— that is to say, in a chair , just inside his door, 
smoking his evening pipe, but still in his shirt-sleeves, and 
with an inch tape gracefully hanging over his neck and 
shoulders. 

“I say, neighbor,” cried Gemp, eagerly, “ you bank with 
Pixon’s?’^ 


74 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


Mr. Gorringe’s pipe fell from his hand, and broke into 
dozen pieces upon the floor. 

“Is — is anything wrong?” he gasped; “and it’s past 
banking hours.” 

“Yah! get out!” cried old Gemp, showing his yellow 
teeth. “ You’re always thinking about your few pence in 
the bank. Why, I bank there, man, and you don’t see me 
going into fits. Yah! what a coward you are?’’ 

“Then — then there’s nothing wrong?” 

“Wrong? No.” 

“Ha!” ejaculated the tailor. “ Mary, bring me another 
pipe.” 

“I only come in a friendly way,” cried Gemp, “to put 
you on your guard.” 

“Then there is something wrong,” cried the tailor, 
aghast. 

“ No, no, no. I want to give you a hint about Hallam.” 

“Hallam!” 

“ Ay ! Has he ordered his wedding- suit of you?” 

“No.” 

“Thought not,” said Gemp, rubbing his hands. “I 
should be down upon him, if I were you. Threaten to 
withdraw my account, man. Dandy chap down from Lon- 
don to-night to take his orders.” 

“No!” 

“Yes; by the coach. Saw he was a tailor in a moment. 
Wouldn’t stand it if I were you” 

Mrs. Pinet, who came to the door with a candle, in an- 
swer to a sharp rap with the visitor’s cane, held up her 
candle above her head, and stared at him for a moment. 
Then a smile dimpled her pleasant, plump face. 

“ Why, bless me, sir! how you have changed!” she said. 

“You know me again, then?” he said, nodding famil- 
iarly. 

“ That I do, sir, and I am glad. You're the young gen- 
tleman Mr. Hallam helped just about a year ago.” 

“ Yes, that’s me. Is he at home?” 

Yes, sir. Will you come this way?” 

Mrs. Pinet drew back to allow the visitor to enter, closed 
the door and set down her candle, and then tapped softly 
on the panel at her right. 

“Here’s that gentleman to see you, sir,” she said, in re- 
sponse to the quick “ Come in.” 

“ Gentleman to see me? Oh, it’s you,” said Hallam, ris- 
ing from his seat to stand very upright and stern- looking, 
with one hand on his breast. 

“Yes, I’ve come down again,” said the visitor, slowly, 
so as to give Mrs. Pinet time to get outside tlie door; and 
then, by mutual consent, they waited until her step had 

\ i r / '' 


THIS 3IAN’S WIFE, 75 

pattered over the carefully reddened old bricks, and a 
door at the back had closed. 

Meanwhile Hallam’s eyes ran rapidly over his visitor’s 
garb, and he seemed satisfied, though he smiled a little at 
the extravagance of the attire. 

“ Why have you come down?” he said at last. 

“Because I didn’t want to write. Because I thought 
you’d like to know how things were going. Because I 
wanted to see how you were getting on. Because I thought 
you’d be glad to see me.” 

“ Because you wanted more money. Because you 
thought you could put on the screw. Because you thought 
you could frighten me. Why, I could extend your list of 
reasons indefinitely, Stephen Crellock, my lad,” said Hal- 
1am, in a quiet tone of voice that was the more telling 
from the anger it evidently concealed. 

“What a one you are, Eobby, old fellow! Just as you 
used to be when we were at ” 

“ Let the past rest,” said Hallam, in a whisper; “ it will 
be better for both.” 

“Oh — h — h — hi” said his visitor, in a peculiar way. 
“ Don’t talk like that, Eob, old chap. It sounds like mak- 
ing plans, and a tall, handsome man in disguise waylaying 
a well-dressed gentleman from town, shooting him with 
pistols, carrying the body in the dead of the night to the 
bank, doubling it up in an iron chest, pouring in a lot of 
lime, and then shutting the lid, sealing it up, and locking 
it in the far corner of the bank cellar, as if it was somt>- 
body’s plate. That’s the game, eh?” 

“ I should like to,” said Hallam, coolly. 

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” laughed his visitor, sitting down; 
“but I’m not afraid, Eob, or I should not have put my 
head in the lion’s den. That’s not the sort of thing you 
would do, because you always were so gentlemanly^, and 
had such a tender conscience. See how grieved you were 
when I got into trouble, and you escaped. ’ ’ 

“Will you ” 

“Will I what? Speak like that before any one else? 
Will I threaten you with telling tales if you don’t give me 
money to keep my mouth shut? Will I be a sneak?” cried 
Crellock, speaking as fiercely as Hallam, and rising to his 
feet, and looking, in spite of his ultra costume, a fine, 
manly fellow. 

“Well, yes, you cowardly cur; have you come down to 
do this now?” said Hallam, menacingly. 

“Aha!” said the other, contemptuously, as he let him- 
self sink back slowly into bis chair. “Don’t try and 
bully, Eob, It did when I came down, weak and half- 


76 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


starved and miserable, after two years’ imprisonment ; but 
it won’t do now. I don’t look hard up, do I?” 

“No; because you’ve spent my money on your wretched 
dress.” 

“I only spent your money when I couldn’t make any for 
myself. I haven’t had a penny of you lately; and as to 
being a coward and a cur, Rob, when I stood in the dock, 
and you were brought as a witness against me, and I could 
have got off half my punishment by speaking the truth, 
was I a sneak then, or did I stand firm?” 

There was a pause. 

“Answer me; did I stand firm then?” cried Crellock. 

“You did stand firm, and I have been grateful, ” said 
Hallam, in a milder tone. “Look here, Stephen, why 
should we quarrel?” 

“ Oh, that’s better, man,” said Crellock, laughing. “You 
Avere so terribly fierce with me last time, and I was brought 
down to a door-mat. Anybody might have wiped their 
shoes on me. I’m better now.” 

“ And you’ve come down to try and bully me,” said Hal- 
lam fiercely. 

His visitor sat back, looking at him hard, without speak- 
ing for a few minutes, and then he said, quietly ; 

“ I give it up.” 

“Give what up —the attempt ?’ ’ 

“ I couldn’t give that up, because I was not going to at- 
tempt anything,” said Crellock, smiling. “I mean give 
it up about you. What is it in you, Rob Hallam, made so 
many fellows like you, and give way to you in everything? 
I don’t know. But there, never mind that. Won’t you 
shake hands?” 

“ Tell me first why you have come down here. Do you 
Avant money?” 

“No.” 

“ Then why did you come down?” 

Crellock’ s face softened a little, and it was not an ill- 
looking countenance as he sat there, softly tapping the 
arm of the chair. At last he spoke : 

“I never had many friends,” he said, huskily. “ Father 
and mother went when I was a little one, and Uncle Rich- 
ard gave me my education, telling me brutally that I was 
an incumbrauc 3. I always had tostop at school through the 
holidays; and when I Avas old enough he put me, as you 
know, in the bank, and told me he had done his duty by 
me, and I must now look to myself.” 

“ Yes, I know,” said Hallam, coldly. 

“Then I got to know you, Rob, and you seemed always 
to be everything a man ought to be— handsome, and clever 
at every game, the best writer, the best at figures. Then, 


THIS MAN^S WIFK 


77 


after office hours, you could sing and play, and tell the 
best story. There, Eob, you know I always got to feel 
toward you as if I was your dog. There was nothing I 
wouldn’t have done for you. Then came those ” 

“ Hush!” 

“Well, I’m not going to say anything dangerous. You 
know how I behaved. I did think you would have made 
it a bit easier for me when it was found out; but when you 
turned against me like the rest, I said to myself that it 
was all right, that it was no good for two to bear it when 
one could take the lot ; and if you had turned against me it 
was only because it was what you called good policy, and 
it would be all right again when I came out. I thought 
you’d stick to me, Rob.” 

“ How could I, a man in a good position, know a ” 

“Felon — a convicted thief?” There, say it, old fellow, 
if you like. I don’t mind; I got pretty well hardened 
down yonder. No, of course you couldn’t, and I know I 
was a fool to come down as I did before, such a shack-bag 
as I was. Out of temper, too, and savage to see you look- 
ing so well ; but I know it was foolish. It was enough to 
make you turn on me. But I’m different now ; I’ve got on 
a bit.” 

“ What are you doing?” said Hallam, sharply. 

“Oh, never mind,” said the other, laughing. “I’ve 
opened an office, and I’m doing pretty well, and I thought 

I’d come down and see you again, Rob, old fellow, and 

You’ll shake hands?” 

“ Is this a bit of maudlin sentiment, Stephen Crellock, 
or are you playing some deep game?” 

Hallam’s visitor rose again and stood before him with 
hand outstretched. 

“Deep game!” he said, softly. “Rob, old fellow, do 
you think a man can be all a blackguard, without one 
good spot in him? Ah, well, just as you like,” he contin- 
ued, dropping his hand heavily; “ I was a fool to come; I 
always have been a fool. I was cat, Rob, and you were 
monke}’', and I got my paws most preciously burned. But 
I didn’t come down to grumble. There — good night.” 

“Where are you going?” 

“Back to tlie George, and to-morrow I shall go up to 
the gold-paved streets. There, you need not be afraid, 
man. If I didn’t tell tales when I was in the dock, I 
sha’n’t now. I thought, after all, that you were my 
friend.” 

“And so I am, Steve!” cried Hallam, after a few mo- 
ments’ hesitation, and he held out his hand. “ We’ll be 
as good friends again as ever, and you shall not suffer this 
time.” 


78 


THIS MAN^S WIFH 


Crellock stifled a sob as he caught the extended hand, to 
wring it with all his force ; then, turning away, he laid his 
arms upon the chimney-piece, his head dropped upon 
them, and for a few minutes he cried like a child. 

Hallam stood fuming and gazing down upon him, with 
an ugly look of contempt distorting his handsome features. 
Then, taking a step forward, he laid his hand upon his 
visitor’s shoulder. 

“Come, cornel” he said, softly. “Don’t go on like 
that.” 

Crellock rose quickly, and dashed the tears from his 
eyes, with a piteous attempt at a laugh. 

“ That’s me all over, Eob,” he said. “ Did you ever see 
such a weak fool? I was bad enough before I had that 
two years’ low fever; I’m worse now, for it was spirit- 
breaking work.” 

“ Soft wax, to mold to any shape,” said Hallam to him- 
self. Then aloud, “ I don’t see anything to be ashamed of 
in a little natural emotion. There, sit down, and let’s 
have a chat.” 

Crellock caught his hand and gripped it hard. 

“Thank ye, Hallam,” he said, huskily — “thank ye; I 
sha’n’t forget this. I told you I’d always felt as if I was 
your dog. I feel so more than ever now. ’ ’ 

sie + * * 

“They’re sitting a long time,” said Mrs. Pinet, as she 
raked out the kitchen fire to the very last red-hot cinder. 
“ Mr. Hallam seemed quite pleased with him; he’s altered 
so for the better. He said I needn’t sit up, and so I’ll go 
to bed.” 

Mrs. Pinet sought her room, and about twelve heard the 
door close on the stranger, between whom and Hallam a 
good deal of eager conversation had passed in a low tone. 

“You see I’m trusting you,” said Hallam, as they 
parted. 

“ You know you can,” was the reply. “ And now, look 
here, if anything goes wrong ” 

“ I tell you, if you do as I have arranged, nothing can go 
wrong. I want an agent in London, whom I can implicitly 
trust, and I am going to trust you. Once more, your task 
is to do exactly what I tell you.” 

“ But if anything goes wrong, I can’t write to you.” 

“Nothing can go wrong, I tell you.” 

“ Yes,” said Crellock to himself, “you told me that once 
before.” Then aloud: 

“ Well, we will say nothing can go wrong, for I shall do 
exactly what you have said; but if anything should, I shall 
come down, and if you see me, look out.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


79 


CHAPTER XIV. 

LIKE GATHERING CLOUDS. 

There is one very pleasant element in coimtry-town life, 
and that is the breadth of the feeling known as neighborly. 
It is often veined by scandal, disfigured by petty curiosity, 
but a genial feeling, like a solid stratum” underlies it all, 
and makes it firm. Mrs. White gets into difficulties, and 
her furniture is sold by auction; but the neighbors flock to 
the sale, and the love of bargains is so overridden that the 
old things often fetch as much as new. Mrs. Black’s 
family are ill, and every one around takes a real and help- 
ful interest. Mrs. Scarlet’s husband dies, and a fancy fair 
is held on her behalf. Then how every one collects at the 
marriage; how all follow at the death? It must be some- 
thing very bad indeed that has been committed if, after 
the customary unpleasant and censorious remarks about 
walking blindfolded into such a slough. Green is not drawn 
out by helping hands — in fact, there is a kind of clannish- 
i>ess in a country town, disfigured by the gossips, but very 
true and earnest all the same. 

Consequently as soon as the day was fixed for Millicent 
Luttrell’s wedding, presents came pouring in from old 
patients and young friends. A meeting was held at 
the Corn Exchange, at which Sir Gordon Bouriie was to 
take the chair, but at which he did not put in an appear- 
ance, and the Reverend Christie Bayle took his place, 
while resolutions were moved and carried that a testimo- 
nial should be presented to our eminent fellow- townsman, 
Robert Hallam, Esq., on the occasion of his marriage with 
the daughter of our esteemed and talented neighbor. Dr. 
Luttrell. 

The service of plate was presented at a dinner, where 
speeches were made, to which Mr. Hallam of the bank re- 
sponded fluently, gracefully, and to the point. Here, too, 
Christie Bayle took the chair, and had the task of present- 
ing the silver, after reading the inscription aloud, amid 
abundant cheers; and as he passed the glittering present 
to the recipient, their eyes met. 

As their eyes met there was a pleasant smile upon Hal- 
lam’s lip, and a thought in his heart that he alone could 
have interpreted, while Bayle’s could have been read by 
any one skilled in the human countenance, as he breathed 
a hope that Millicent Luttrell might be made a happy wife. 

The whole town was in a ferment— not a particular state 
of affairs for King’s Castor — in fact, the people of that 
town in his majesty’s dominions were always waiting for 
a chance to effervesce and alter the prevailing stagnation 


80 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


for a time. Hence it was that the town band practiced up 
a new tune; the grass was mowed in the churchyard, and 
some of the weeds cleared out from the gravel path. Miss 
Heathery went to the expense of a new bonnet and silk 
dress, and indulged in a passionate burst of weeping in the 
secrecy of her own room, because she was not asked to act 
as a brideinaid ; and though Gorringe did not obtain any 
order from the bridegroom, he was favored by Mr. James 
Thickens, to make him a blue dress-coat with triple-gilt 
buttons — a coat so blue, and whose buttons wore such daz- 
zling disks of metal, that it was not until it had been in the 
tailor’s window, finished, and “on show” for three days, 
that James Thickens awakened to the fact that it was his, 
end paid a nocturnal visit to Gorringe to beg him to send 
it home. 

“But you don’t want it till the day, Mr. Thickens,” said 
the tailor, “and that coat’s bringing me orders.” 

“ But I shall never dare to wear it, Gorringe — everybody 
will know it.” 

“ Of course they will, sir!” said the tailor, proudly, and 
glancing toward his window with that half-smile an artist 
wears when his successful picture is on view, “ that’s a coat 
such as is not seen in Castor every day. Look at the col- 
lar! There’s two days’ hard stitching in that collar, sir!” 

“I have looked at the collar,” said Thickens, hastily, 
“and I must have it home.” 

Gorringe gave way, and the coat went home; but he 
felt, he said to his wife, as if he had been robbed, for that 
coat would have won the hearts of half the farmers round. 

At the doctor’s cottage Mrs. Luttrell was in one constant 
whirl of excitement, with four clever seamstresses at woi*k, 
for at King’s Castor a bride’s trousseau was called by a 
much simpler name, and provided throughout at home, 
along with the house-linen, which in those days meant 
linen of the finest and coolest, and it was absolutely neces- 
sary that every article that could be stitched should be 
stitched with rows of the finest stitches carefully put in. 

“ You’re about worrying yourself into a fever, my dear,” 
said the doctor, smiling, “ and I can’t afford such patients 
as you. Where can I have this bunch of radish-seed hung 
up to dry? Give it to Thisbe to hang in the kitchen.” 

“Now, my dear, how can you be so unreasonable !” cried 
Mrs. Luttrell, half whimpering. “Radish-seed at a time 
like this! Thisbe is recovering the pots of jam.” 

“What jam? what for?” 

“For Millicent. You don’t suppose I'm going to let her 
begin housekeeping without a pot of jam in the store- 
room !’ ’ 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


81 


“ Thank goodness I’ve only one child!” said the doctor, 
with a half-amused, half- vexed countenance. 

“Why, papa, you always said you wished we had had a 
baby.” 

‘ ‘ Ah, I did not know that I should have to suffer all this 
when the wedding-time came.” 

“Now, if you would only go into your garden and see 
to your patients, my love, everything would go right!” 
cried Mrs, Luttrell; “but you are so impatient! Look at 
Millicent, how quiet and calm she is!” 

The doctor had looked at Millicent, as she stole out to 
him in the garden— often now, as if mo’^ed by a desire to 
be as much with him as she could before the great step of 
her life was taken. 

'J'here was a quiet look of satisfaction in her eyes that 
told of her content, and the happy peace that reigned 
within her breast. 

The doctor understood her, as she came to him when at 
work, questioning him about the blossoms of this rose, and 
the success of that creeper, and taking endless interest in 
all he did; and when she was summoned away to try 
something on, or to select some pattern, she smiled and 
said that she would soon be back. 

“ Ah!” he said with a sigh, “ she is trying to break it off 
gently!” and his work ceased until he heard her step, 
when he became very busy and cheerful again, as they 
both played at hiding from each other the separation that 
was to come. 

*• Poor papa!” thought Millicent, he will miss me when 
I am gone.” 

“If that fellow does not behave well to her,” said the 
doctor to himself, “ and I do happen to be called in to him, 
I shall — well, I suppose it would not be right to do that.” 

As for Mrs. Luttrell, she was too busy to think much till 
she went to bed, and then the doctor complained. 

“ I must have some rest, my dear!” he said, plaintively, 
“and I don’t say that you will — but if you do have a bad 
faceache from sleeping on a pillow soaked with tears, don’t 
come to me to prescribe.” 

It was very near the time, and all was gliding on peace- 
fully toward the wedding-day. Hallam came regularly 
every evening; and, after a good deal of struggling, Mrs. 
Luttrell contrived to call him ‘‘ my dear,” while, by a 
similar effort of mind, the doctor habituated himself, from 
saying “Mr. Hallam” and “Hallam,” to the familiar 
“Robert,” though in secret both agreed that it did not 
seem natural, and did not come easily, and never would be 
Rob or Bob. 

One soft, calm evening, as the moon was rising from 


82 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


behind the fine old church, and Millicent and Hallam lin- 
gered still in the garden among the shrubs, where they 
could see the shaded lamp shining down on Mrs. Luttrell’s 
white curls and pleasant, intent face, as she busily stitched 
away at a piece of linen for the new house, while the doc- 
tor was reading an account of some new plants brought 
home by Sir Joseph Banks, Millicent had become very 
silent. 

Hallam was holding her tenderly to his side, and looking 
down at the sweet, calm face, lit by the rising moon, his 
own in shadow; and after watching her rapt aspect for a 
time, he said, in his deep, musical voice, “How silent and 
absorbed! You are not regretting what is so soon to be?” 

“Regretting!” she cried, starting; and looking up in his 
face, she laid her hands upon his breast. “ Don’t speak to 
me like that, Robert, dear. You know me better. As if I 
could regret !” 

“Then you are quite happy?” ' 

“ Happy? Too happy; and yet so sad!” she murmured, 
softly. “ It seems as if life were too full of joy, as if I 
could not bear so much happiness, when it is at the cost of 
others, and I am giving them pain.” 

“ Don’t speak like that,” he said, tenderly. “My own ! 
It is natural that a woman should leave father and mother 
to cling unto her husband.” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” she sighed, “but the pain is given. 
They will miss me so much. You are smiling, dear; but 
this is not conceit. I am their only child, and we have 
been all in all to each other.” 

“But you are not going far,” he said, tenderly. 

“No, not far; and yet it is away from them,” sighed 
Millicent, turning her head to gaze sadly at the pleasant 
picture seen through the open window. “ Not far, but it 
is from home.” 

“But to home,” he whispered — “to your home, our 
home, the home of the husband who loves you with all his 
heart. Ah, Millicent, I have been so poor a wooer, I have 
failed to say the winning, fiatlering things so pleasant to a 
woman’s ear. I have felt half dumb before you, as if my 
pleasure were too great for words ; and quick and strong 
as I am with my fellows, I have only been an awkward 
lover at the best.” 

She laid her soft, white hand upon his lips, and gave him 
a half-reproachful look. 

And yet,” she said, smiling, “ how much stronger your 
silent wooing has been than any words that could have 
been said. Did I ever seem like one who wanted flatter- 
ing words and admiration? Robert, you do not know me 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


83 


“No,” he whispered, passioDately, “not yet, and never 
shall, for I find something more in you to love each time 
we meet, Millicent--my own — my wife!” 

She yielded to his embrace, and they remained silent for 
a time. 

At last he spoke : 

“But you seemed sad and disappointed to-night. Have 
I grieved you in any way?- have 1 given you pain?” 

“Oh, no,” she said, looking gravely in his face, “and 
you never could. Robert,” she continued, dreamily, as 
she clung to him, “ I can see our life mapped out in the fut- 
ure till it fades away. There are pains and sorrows, the 
thorns that strew the wayside of all; but I have always 
your strong, guiding arm to help and protect — tilways 
your brave, loving words to sustain when my spirit will 
be low, and together, hand-in-hand, we tread that path, 
patient, hopeful, loving to the end.” 

“My own,” he whispered. 

“I have no fear,” she continued; “my love was not 
given hastily, like that of some quickly dazzled girl ; my 
love was slow to awaken ; but when I felt that it was being 
sought by one whom I could reverence as well as love, I 
gave it freely — all I had.” 

“ And you are content?” 

“ I should be truly happy, but for the pain I must give 
others.” 

“ ‘ Only a pang, dear love, that will pass away in the 
feeling that their child is truly happy in her choice. There, 
there, the moonlight and the solemn look of the night have 
made you sad. Let us talk more cheerfully. Come, you 
must have something to ask of me?” 

“ No; you have told me everything,” she said, gravely. 
“I wish they could have been here to give their blessing 
on our love. ’ ’ 

“ Their blessing?” he said, half wonderingly. 

“Your mother — your father, Robert,” she whispered, 
reverently, as she bent her head. 

“ Hush!” he said, and for a few moments they were si 
lent. “ But come,” he cried, as if trying to give their con- 
versation a more cheerful turn, “you must have some- 
thing more to ask of me. I mean for our house.” 

“ No,” she said; “ it is everything I could wish.” 

“No,” he said, proudly, “ it is too humble for my queen. 
If I were rich, you should have the fairest jewels, costly 
retinues— a palace.” 

“ Give me your love, and I have all I need,” she cried, 
laughing, as she clung to him. 

“ Then you must be very rich,” he said. “ But is there 
nothing? Come, you are a fx’ee agent now, In anothei* 


84 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


week you will be my own— my property, my slave, bound 
to me by a ring. Come, use your liberty while you can.” 

‘‘ Well, then, yes,” she said; “ I will make a demand or 
two.” 

“That’s right; I am the slave yet, and obey. What is 
the first wish?” 

“ I like Sir Gordon, dear; he has always been so good 
and kind to me. Ask him to come. ” 

“Too late. He left the town by coach this evening. 
From a hint he dropped to Thickens about his letters, I 
think he has gone to Hull, and is going on to Spain.” 

“Oh!” It was an ejaculation full of pain and sorrow. 
“ I am grieved,” she said, softly, and the news brought up 
that day when he had made her the offer of his hand. 

Hallam watched her mobile face and its changes as she 
gazed straight before her, toward where the moon was be- 
ginning to flood the leaden roof of the old church, the 
crenelated wall, and the crockets on the tall spire stand- 
ing out black and clear against the sky. His face was still 
in the shadow. 

“There is another request,” she said, at last, and her 
voice was very low as she spoke. “Robert, will you ask 
Mr. Bayle to marry us? I would rather it was he.” 

“Bayle!” he exclaimed, starting, and the word jerked 
from his lips, as if he had suddenly lost control of himself. 
“ No, it is impossible!” 

“ Impossible!” she said, wonderingly. 

“This man has caused me more suffering than I could 

tell you. If you knew the jealous misery No, no, I 

don’t mean that,” he said, quickly, as he caught her to his 
breast. 

“Oh, Robert!” she cried. 

“No, no, don’t notice me,” he said, hastily. “It was 
long ago. He loved you, and I was not sure of you then. 
Yes. darling, I will ask him if you wish it. That folly is 
all dead now.” 

“Robert,” she said, after a thoughtful pause, “do you 
wish me to give up that request?” 

“Give up! No: I should be ready to insist upon it if 
you did. There, that is all past. It was the one boyish 
folly of my love, one of which I am heartily ashamed.” 

“I think he wants to be your friend as well as mine,” 
she said, “and I should have liked it; but ” 

“Your will is my law, Millicent!” he cried, quickly. 
“ He shall marry us.” 

“But, Robert ” 

“ If you oppose me now in this I shall think you have 
I'^ot forgiven the folly to which I have confessed. I can 


THIS MAN^S ^VIPE. 


85 


hardly forgive myself that meanness. You will not add to 
m\^ pain?” 

“Add to your pain!” she said, laying her hand once 
more upon his breast. “Robert, you do not know me 
yet.” 

And so it was that Christie Bayle joined the hand of the 
woman he had loved to that of the man who had told her 
she would in future be his very own— his property, and his 
slave. Pretty well all Castor was present, at the highest 
pitch of excitement, for a handsomer pair, they said, had 
never stood in the old chancel to be made one. 

And they were made one. The register was signed, and 
then, in the midst of a murmuring buzz and rustle of gar- 
ments that filled the great building like the gathering of a 
storm, Robert Hallam and his fair young wife moved down 
the aisle toward where a man was waiting to give the sig- 
nal to the ringers to begin-; and the crowd had filled every 
corner near the door, and almost blocked the path. The 
sun shone out brilliantly, and the buzz and rustle grew 
more and more like the gathering of that storm which 
burst at last, as the young couple reached the porch, in a 
thundering cheer. 

Millicent looked flushed, and there was a red spot in 
Hallam’s cheeks as he walked out, proud and defiant, 
toward where the yellow chaise from the George, with 
four post-horses, was waiting. 

The coach had just come in, and the passengers were 
standing gazing at the novel scene. 

Again tlie storm burst in a tremendous cheer as Hallam 
handed his young wife into the chaise, and then there 
seemed to be another nearing storm, sending its harbinger 
in a fashion which made firm, self-contained Robert 
Hallam turn pale as a hand was laid upon his arm. 

“ He said that if anything did go wrong he should come 
back,” flashed through his brain. 

Stephen Crellock was bending forward to whisper a few 
words in his ear. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


80 


BOOK IL 

THE THORNY WAT, 


CHAPTER I. 

MILLICENT HALLAM’S HOME. 

“How dare you? Be off! Goto your mistress. Don’t 
pester me, woman.” 

“Didn’t know it were pestering you, sir, to ask for my 
rights. Two years doo, and it’s time it was paid.” 

“ Ask your mistress, I tell you. Here, Julia.” 

A dark-haired, thoughtful looking child of about six 
years old loosened her grasp of Tliisbe Bing’s dress, and 
crossed the room slowly toward where Robert Hallam sat, 
newspaper in hand, by his half -finished breakfast. 

“Here, Julia!” was uttered with no unkindly intent; 
but the call was like a command — an imperious command, 
such as would be given to a dog. 

The child was nearly close to him when he gave the 
paper a sharp rustle, and she sprung back. 

“Bah!” he exclaimed, laughing unpleasantly, “what a 
silly little girl you are! Did you think I was going to 
strike you?” 

“N — no, papa,” said the child, nervously. 

“Then why did you flinch away? Are you afraid of 
me?” 

The child looked at him intently for a few moments, 
and then said, softly : 

“ I don’t know.” 

“Here, Thisbe,” said Hallam, frowning, “I’ll see to 
that. You can go now. Leave Miss Julia here.” 

“ Mayn’t I go with Thisbe, papa?” said the child, eagerly. 

“No; stay with me. I want to talk to you. Come 
here.” 

The child’s countenance fell, and she sidled toward Hal- 
lam, looking wistfully the while at Thisbe, who left the 
room reluctantly and closed the door. 

As soon as they were alone Hallam threw down the 

E aper and drew the child upon his knee, stroking her 
eautiful long dark hair, and held his face toward her. 
“Well,” he said, sharply, “ haven’t you a kiss for papa?” 
The child kissed him on both cheeks quickly, and then 
sat still and watched him. 

“ That’s better,” he said, smiling. “ Little girls always 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


87 


get rewards when they are good. Now, I shall buy you a 
new doll for that. ’ ’ 

The child’s eyes brightened. 

“Have you got plenty of money, papa?” she said, 
quickly. 

“Well, I don’t know about plenty,” he said, with a 
curious laugh, as he glanced round the handsomely fur- 
nished room, “but enough for that.” 

“Will you give me some?” 

“Money is not good for little girls,” said Hallam, smil- 
ing. 

“But I’m not little, now,” said the child, quietly. 

‘ ‘ Mamma says I’ m quite a companion to her, and she 
doesn’t know what she would do without me.” 

“ Indeed !” said Hallam, sarcastically. “Well, suppose 
I give you some money, what shall you buy — a doll?” 

She shook her head. “I’ve got five dolls now,” she 
said, counting on her little pink fingers — “mamma, papa. 
Tliisbe, and me, and Mr. Bayle.” 

Hallam ground out an ejaculation, making the child 
start from him in alarm. 

“Sit still, little one,” he said, hastily. “Why, what’s 
the matter? Here, what would you do with the money?” 

“Give it to mamma to pay Thisbe. Mamma was cry- 
ing about wanting some money yesterday for grand- 
mamma.” 

“Did your grandmother come and ask mamma for 
money yesterday?” 

“Yes; she said grandpa^m was so ill and worried that 
she did not know what to do!” 

Hallam rose quickly from his seat, setting down the 
child, and began walking up and down the room, while 
the girl, after watching him for a few moments in silence, 
began to edge her way slowly toward the door, as if to 
escape from the room. 

She had nearly reached it when Hallam noticed her, 
and, catching her by the wrist, led her back to his chair, 
and reseated himself. 

“Look here, Julia,” he said, sharply, “ I will not have 
you behave like this. Does your mother teach you to 
keep away from me because I seem so cross?” he added, 
with a laugh that was not pleasant. 

“No,” said the child, shaking her head; “she said I 
was to be very fond of you, because you were my dear 
papa.” 

“Well, and are you?” 

“Yes,” said the child, nodding, “I think so;” and she 
looked wistfully in his face. 


88 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“That’s right; and now be a good girl, and you shall 
have a pony to ride, and everything you like to ask for.” 

“ And money to give to poor mamma?” 

“Silence!” cried Hallam, harshly, and the child shrank 
away, and covered her face with her hands. 

” Don’t do that I” cried Hallam ; “ take down your hands. 
What have you to cry for now?” 

The child dropped her hands in a frightened manner, 
and looked at him with her large dark eyes, that seemed 
to be watching for a blow, her face twitching slightly, but 
there were no tears. 

“Any one would think I was a regular brute to the 
child,” he muttered, scowling at her involuntarily, and 
then sitting very thoughtful and quiet, holding her on his 
knee, while he thrust back the breakfast things and tapped 
the table. At last, turning to her with a smile, “Have a 
cup of coffee, Julie,” he said. 

She shook her head. “ I had my breakfast with mamma 
ever so long since.” 

He frowned again, looking uneasily at the child, and re- 
suming the tapping upon the table with his thin white fin- 
gers. • 

The window looking out on the market-place was before 
them, quiet, sunny, and with only two people visible, Mrs. 
Pinet, watering her row of flowers with a jng, and the 
half of old Gemp, as he leaned out of his doorway, and 
looked in turn up the street and down. 

All at once a firm, quick step was heard, and the child 
leaped from her father’s knee. 

“ Here’s Mr. Bayle! Here’s Mr. Bayle!” she cried, clap- 
ping her hands, and, bounding to the window, she sprung 
upon a chair, to press her face sideways to the pane, to 
watch for him who came, and then to begin tapping on the 
glass, and kissing her hands as Christie Ba.yle, a firm, 
broad-shouldered man, nodded and smiled, aiid went by. 

Julia leaped from the chair to run out of the room, leav’’- 
ing Robert Hallam clutching the arms of his chair, with his 
brow wrinkled and an angry frown upon his countenance, 
as he ground his teeth together, and listened to the opening 
of the front door, and the mingling of the curate’s frank, 
deep voice with the silvery prattle of his child. 

“Ha, little one!” And then there was the sound of 
kisses, as Hallam heard the rustle of what seemed, through 
the closed door, to be Christie Bayle taking the child by 
the waist and lifting her up to throw her arms about his 
neck. 

“ You’re late!” she cried; and the very tone of her voice 
seemed changed as she spoke eagerly. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“No, no, five minutes early; and I must go up to town 
first now.” 

“Oh!” cried the child. 

“ I shall not be long. How is mamma?” 

“ Mamma isn’t well, ” said the child. “ She has been cry- 
ing so!” 

“Hush, hush, my darling!” said Bayle, softly, “You 
should not whisper secrets.” 

“ Is that a secret, Mr. Bayle?” 

“ Yes ; mamma’s secret, and my Julia must be mamma’s 
well- trusted little girl.” 

“ Please, Mr. Bayle, I’m so sorry, and I won’t do so any 
more. Are you cross with me?” 

“My darling!” he cried, passionately, “as if any one 
could be cross with you. There, get your books ready, and 
I’ll soon be back.” 

“ No, no, not this morning, Mr. Bayle; not books. Take 
me for a walk, and teach me about the flowers.” 

“After lessons, then. There, run away.” 

Hallam rose from his chair, with his lips drawn slightly 
from his teeth, as he heard Bayle’s retiring steps. Then 
the front door was banged loudly ; he heard his child clap 
her hands, and then the quick fall of her feet as she skipped 
across the hall and bounded up the stairs. 

He took a few strides up and down the room, but 
stopped short as the door opened again, and, handsomer 
than ever, but with a graver, more womanly beauty, 
heightened by a pensive, troubled look in her eyes and 
about the corners of her mouth, Millicent Hallam glided in. 

Her face lit up with a smile as she crossed to Hallam and 
laid her white hand upon his arm. 

“Don’t think me unkind for going away, dear,” she 
said, softly. “ Have you quite done?” 

“Yes,” he said, shortly. “There, don’t stop me; I’m 
late.” 

“ Are you going to the bank, dear?” 

“ Of course I am. Where do you suppose I’m going?” 

“ I only thought, dear, that ” 

“Then don’t only think for the sake of saying foolish 
things.” 

She laid her other hand upon his arm, and smiled in his 
face. 

“ Don’t let these monej^ matters trouble you so, Robert,” 
she said. “ What does it matter whether we are rich or 
poor?” 

“Oh, not in the least!” he cried, sarcastically. “You 
don’t want any money, of course?” 

“I do, dear, terribly,” she said, sadly. “I have becTi 


90 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


asked a great deal lately for payments of bills; and if you 
could let me have some this morning ’ ’ 

“Then I cannot; it’s impossible. There, wait a few 
days and the crisis will be over, and you can clear off.” 

“And you will not speculate again, dear?” she said, 
eagerly. 

“Oh no, of course not!” he rejoined, with a touch of 
sarcasm in his voice. 

“We should be so much happier, dear, on your salary. 
I would make it plenty for us; and then, Eobert, you 
would be so much more at peace.” 

“How can I be at peace,” he cried, savagely, “when, 
just as I am harassed with monetary cares— which you 
cannot understand— I find my home, instead of a place of 
rest, a place of torment?” 

“ Eobert!” she said, in a tone of tender reproach. 

“ People here I don’t want to see; servants pestering me 
for money, when I have given you ample for our household 
expenses; and my own child set against me, ready to 
shrink from me, and look upon me as some domestic 
ogre!” 

“ Eobert, dear, pray do not talk like that.” 

“ I am driven to it ” he cried, fiercely. “ The child de- 
tests me!” 

“Oh no, no, no,” she whispered, placing her arm round 
his neck. 

“And rushes to that fellow Bayle as if she had been 
taught to look upon him as everybody.” 

“ Nay, nay !” she said, softly; and there was a tender 
smile upon her lip, a look of loving pity in her eye. “Julie 
likes Mr. Bayle, for he pets her, and plays with her as if 
he were her companion.” 

“ And I am shunned.” 

“ Oh no, dear, you frighten poor Julie sometimes when 
you are in one of your stern, thoughtful moods. ’ ’ 

“ My stern, thoughtful moods. Pshaw!” 

“Yes,” she said, tenderly; “your stern, thoughtful 
moods. The child cannot understand them as I do, dear 
husband. She thinks of sunshine and play. How can she 
read the depth of the father’s love— of the man who is so 
foolishly ambitious to win fortune for his child. Eobert— 
husband — my own, would it not be better to set all these 
strivings for wealth aside, and go back to the simple, 
peaceful days again?” 

“ You do not understand these things,” he said, harshly. 

‘ ‘ There ; let me go. I ought to have been at the bank an 
hour ago, but I could not get a wink of sleep all the early 
part of the night,” 


THIS 3IAN^S WIF^. 


01 


“ I know, dear. It was three o’clock when you went to 
sleep.” 

” How did you know?” 

“The clock struck when you dropped off, dear. I did 
not speak for fear of waking you. ’ ’ 

She did not add that she, too, had been kept awake 
about money matters, and wondering whether her hus- 
band would consent to live in a more simple style in a 
smaller house. 

” There, good-bye,” he said, kissing her. “ It is all com- 
ing right. Don’t talk to your father or mother about my 
affairs.” 

“Of course I should not, love,” she replied; “such 
things are sacred.” 

“Yes, of course,” he said, hastily. “There, don’t 
take any notice of what I have said. I am worried- 
very much worried just now, but all will come right 
soon.” 

He kissed her hastily and hurried away, leaving Milli- 
cent standing thoughtful and troubled till she heard an- 
other step on the rough stones, when a calm expression 
seemed to come over her troubled face, but only to be 
chased away by one more anxious as the step halted at the 
door and the bell rang. 

Meanwhile Julia had run up stairs to her own room, 
Avhere, facing the door, five very battered dolls sat in a 
row upon the drawers, at which she dashed full of child- 
ish excitement, and as if to continue some interrupted 
game. 

She stopped short, looked round, and then gave her little 
foot a stamp. 

“How tiresome!” she cried, pettishly. “It’s that 
nasty, tiresome, disagreeable old Thibs. I hate her, that 
I do, and ” 

“Oh, you hate me, do you?” cried the object of her 
anger, appearing in the doorway. “Very well, it don’t 
matter. I don’t mind. 'You don’t care for anybody now 
but Mr. Bayle.” 

The child rushed across the room to leap up and fling 
her arms round Thisbe’s neck, as that oddity stood there, 
quite unchanged; the same obstinate, hard woman who 
had opposed Mrs. Luttrell seven years before. 

“Don’t, don’t, don’t say such things, Thibs,” cried the 
child, all eagerness and excitement now, the very opposite 
of the timid, shrinking girl in the breakfast-room a short 
time before ; and as she spoke she covered the hard face 
before her with kisses. “You know, you dear, darling 
old Thibs, I love you. Oh, I do love you so very, very 
much.” 


92 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ I know it’s all shim-sham and pea-shucks,” said Thisbe, 
grimly; but, without moving her face, rather bending 
down to meet the kisses. 

“ No, you don’t think anything of the kind, Thibs, and I 
won’t have you looking cross at me like papa.” 

“It’s all sham, I tell you,” said Thisbe, again. “You 
never love me only when you want anything.” 

“ Oh, Thibs!” cried the girl, with the tears gathering in 
her eyes; “ how can you say that?” 

“ Because I’m a nasty, hard, cankery, ugly, disagreeable 
old woman,” said Thisbe, clasping the child to her breast; 
“ and it isn’t true, and you’re my own precious sweet, that 
you are.” 

“And you took away my box out of the room when I 
had to go down to papa.” 

“But you can’t have a nasty, great, dirty candle- box in 
your bedroom, my dear.” 

“ But I want it for a doll’s house, and I’m going to line 
it with paper, and— do, Thibs, do, do let me have it, 
please!” 

“Oh, very well, I shall have to be getting the moon for 
you next. I never see such a spoiled child.” 

“Make haste, then, before Mr. Bayle comes to go on with 
my lessons. Quick! quick! where is it?” 

“In the lumber-room, of course; where do you suppose 
it is?” 

Thisbe led the way along a broad passage and up three 
or four stairs to an old oak door, which creaked mourn- 
fully on its hinges as it was thrown back, showing a long, 
sloping, ceiled room, half filled with packing-cases and old 
fixtures that had been taken down when Hallam hired the 
house, and had it somewhat modernized for their use. 

It was a roomy place, with a large fireplace that had ap- 
parently been partially built up to allow of a small grate 
being set, while walls and ceiling were covered with a 
small-patterned paper, a few odd rolls and pieces of which 
lay in a corner. 

“ I see it,” cried Julia, excitedly. 

“No, no, no; let me get it,” cried Thisbe. “Bless the 
bairn ! why, she’s like a young goat. There, now, just see 
what you’ve done!” 

The child had darted at the hinged deal box, stood up on 
one end against the wall in the angle made by the great 
projecting fireplace, and in dragging it away had torn 
down a large piece of the wall-paper. 

“Oh, I couldn’t help it, Thibs,” cried the child, panting. 
“ I am so sorry.” 

“So sorry, indeed!” cried Thisbe; “so sorry, indeed, 
won’t mend walls. Why, bow wet it is!” she continued, 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


93 


kneeling doAvii and smoothing out the paper, and dabbing 
It back against the end of the great fireplace from which 
it had been torn. “There’s one of them old gutters got 
stopped up, and the rain soaks in through the roof, and 
wets this wall; it ought to be seen to at once.” 

All this while making a ball of her apron, Thisbe, who 
was the perfection of neatness, had been putting back the 
torn-down corner of paper, moistened it here and there, 
and ending by making it stick so closely that the tear was 
only visible on a close inspection. This done, she rose and 
carried the box out, and into the child’s bedroom, when, 
before the slightest advance had been made toward turning 
it into a doll's house, there was a ring at the door, and 
Thisbe descended to admit the curate, to whom Julia came 
bounding down. 


CHAPTER II. 

MISS heathery’s offering. 

Nature, or rather the adaptation from nature which we 
call civilization, deals very hardly with unmarried ladies 
of twenty -five for the next ten or a dozen years. Then it 
seems to give them up, and we have then arrived at what 
is politely known as the uncertain age. Very uncertain 
it is, for from thirty- five to forty-five some ladies seem to 
stand still. 

Miss Heathery Avas one of these, and the mid-life stage 
seemed to have made her evergreen, for seven years’ lapse 
' found her much the same, scarcely in any manner 
changed. 

Poor Miss Heathery ! For twenty years she had been 
longing, with all the intensity of a true woman, to become 
somebody’s squaw. Her heart was an urn full of sweet- 
ness. Perhaps it was of rather a sickly, cloying kind that 
many men would have turned from with disgust, but it 
was sweetness all the same, and for these long, long years 
she had been waiting to pour this honey of her nature like 
a blessing upon some one’s head, while only one man had 
been ready to say “ Pour on” and hold his head ready. 

That one would-be suitor was old Gemp ; and when he 
said it poor Miss Heathery recoiled, clasping her hands 
tightly upon the mouth of the urn and closing it. She 
could not pour it there, and the love of Gemp had turned 
into a bitter hate. 

If the curate in his disappointment would only have 
turned to her, she sighed to herself ! 

“Ah!” 

And she went on thinking and Avorking. What comfort- 
ing fieecy undergarments she could have woven for him ! 


94 


THIS 3IAN’S WIFE. 


What ornamental braces he should have worn! and, in 
the sanguine hopes of that swelling urn of sweets, she de- 
signed— she never began them— a set of slippers, a set of 
seven, all beautifully worked in wool and silks, and lined 
with velvet. Sunday: white, with a gold sun; Monday: 
dominating with a pale, lambent, golden green, for it was 
moon’s day; Tuesday puzzled her, for it took her into the 
Scandinavian mythology, and there she was lost hopelessly 
for a time; but she waded out with an idea' that Tuisco 
was Mars, so the slippers should be red. The Wednesday 
slippers brought in Mercury, so they w'ere silvery. Thurs- 
day was another puzzle, till the happy idea came of cover- 
ing Thor’s hammer, which would give the slippers quite a 
college look, black hammers on a red ground. Friday — 
Frega, Venus — she would work a beauteous woman with 
golden hair on each. She felt rather doubtful about the 
woman's face; but love would find out the way. Then 
there was Saturday. 

Just as she reached Saturday, she remembered having 
once heard that Sir Gordon had a set of razors for every 
day in the week, and the design halted. 

Ah! if Sir Gordon would only have looked at her with 
that sad, melancholy air of tenderness, how happy she 
could have been ! How she would have prompted him to 
keep on that fight of his against time ! But he never smiled 
upon her; and though she paid in all her little sums of 
money at the bank herself, and changed all her checks, 
Mr. James Thickens— as he was alwaj^s called, to distin- 
guish him from a Mr. Thickens of whom some one had 
once heard somewhere— made no step in advance. The 
bank counter was always between them, and it was very 
broad. 

What could she do more to show her affection? she asked 
herself. She had petitioned him to give her “ a teeny 
weeny gold-fish, and a teeny weeny silver-fish,” and he 
had responded at once ; but he was close in his ways ; he 
was not generous. He did not purchase a glass globe of iri- 
descent tints and goodly form; he borrowed a small milk- 
tin at the dairy and sent them in that, with his compli- 
ments. 

But there were the fish, and she purchased a beautiful 
globe herself, placed three Venus’ ear-shells in the bottom, 
filled it with clear water from the river carefully strained 
through three thicknesses of fianiiel, and there the fish 
lived till they died. 

Why they died so soon may have been from overpetting 
and too much food. For Miss Heathery secretly named 
the gold-fish James, and the silver-fish Letitia— her own 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


95 


name— and she was never so happy as when feeding James 
and coaxing him to kiss the tips of her thin little fingers. 

Perhaps it was from overfeeding, perhaps from too much 
salt; for as Miss Heathery, after long waiting, had to con- 
tent herself with the chaste salutes of the gold-fish, dis- 
solved pearls distilled from her sad eyes and fell in the 
water like sporadic drops of rain. 

Miss Heathery’s spirit was low, and yet it kept leaping 
up strangely; for she had been at the bank one morning to 
change a check, and with the full intention of asking Mr. 
Janies Thickens to present her with a couple more fish 
from the store of which she had heard so much, but which 
she had never seen. 

That morning, as she noted how broad the pathway had 
grown from the forehead upward, and had seen when he 
turned his back that it expanded into a circular walk 
round a bed of grizzle in the back of his crown, and was 
then continued to the nape, Mr. James Thickens seemed to 
be extremely hard and cold. He looked certainly older, 
too. than he used ; of that she was sure. 

He seemed so extremely abrupt and impatient with her 
when she wished him a sweet and pensive good-morning, 
which was as near a blessing upon his getting bald head as 
the words would allow. 

She said afterward that it was a fine morning, a very 
fine morning — a fact that he did not deny, neither did he ac- 
knowledge; and so abstracted and strange did he seem, 
that the gold-fish slipped out of her mind, and for a few 
moments she was agitated. She recovered, though; and 
laying down a little bunch of violets beside her reticule, 
she went through her regular routine, received her change, 
and with a strange feeling of exultation at the artfulness 
of her procedure, she had reached the door, after a most 
impressive “good-morning;” for Miss Heathery always 
kept up the fiction of dining late, though she partook of 
her main meal at half-past one. 

She had reached the door, when James Thickens spoke, 
his voice, the voice of her forlorn hope, thrilling her to the 
core. It was not a thrilling word, though it had that effect 
upon her, for it was only a summons— an arrest, a check 
to her outward progress. 

“Hi!” 

That was all. “Hi!” but it did thrill her; and she 
stopped short with bounding pulses. It was abrupt, but 
still, what of that? Gentlemen were not ladies; and if, in 
their masterful, commanding way, they began their court- 
ship by showing that they were the lords of women, why 
should she complain? He had only to order her to be his 


96 THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

wife, and she was read 3 ^ to become more — his very submis- 
sive slave. 

She stopped, and, after a moment’s hesitation, turned at 
that “Hi!” so full of hope to her thirst}^ soul. Her eyes 
were humid with pleasurable sensations, and but for that 
broad, mahogany counter, she would have thrown herself 
at his feet. At that moment she was upon the dazzling 
pinnacle of joy ; the next she was mentally sobbing despair- 
ingly in the vale of sorrow and despair into which she had 
fallen, for James Thickens said, coldly: 

“ Here, you’ve left something behind.” 

Her violets I Her sweet offering that she had laid upon 
the altar behind which her idol always stood. That bunch 
was gathered by her own fingers, tied up with her own 
hands, incensed with kisses made dewy with tears. It 
was the result of loving and painful thought followed by 
an inventive flash. It meant an easy confession of her 
love; and after laying it upon the mahogany altar, her 
sanguine imagination painted James Thickens lifting it, 
kissing it, holding it to his breast, searching among the 
leaves for the note which was not there, and, lastly, wear- 
ing it home in his buttonhole, placing it in water for a 
time, and then keeping it dried, yet fragrant, in a book of 
poetry, the present of his love. 

All that and more she had thought; and now James 
Thickens had called out, “Hi I Here, you’ve left some- 
thing behind.” 

She crept back to the counter, and said, “Thank you, Mr. 
Thickens,” in a piteous voice, her eyes beneath her veil too 
much blinded by the gathering tears to see Mr. Trampleas- 
ure passing through the bank, though she heard his words, 
“ Good-da 3 ^ Miss Heathery,” and fowed. 

It was all over ; James Thickens was not a man, he was 
a rhinoceros, with an impenetrable hide; and, taking up 
her bunch of flowers, she was about to leave the bank, 
when Thickens spoke again. 

“Look here,” he said, “I want to talk to you. Can’t 
jmu ask me to tea?” 

The place seemed to spin round, and the mahogany 
counter to heave and fall like a wave, as she tried to speak, 
but could not for a few moments. Then she mastered her 
emotion, and in a hurried, trembling, half-hysterical voice, 
she chirped out : 

“Yes; this evening, Mr. Thickens, at six.” 


THIS MAN^S WiPH 


97 


CHAPTER III. 

JAMES THICKENS TAKES TEA. 

“ Rum little woman,” said Thickens to himself as he 
hurried out of the bank. “Wonder whether she’d like 
another couple of fish.” 

Some men would have gone home to smarten up before 
visiting a lady to take tea, but James Thickens was not of 
that kind. His idea of smartness was always to look like 
a clean, dry drab leaf, and he was invariably, whenever 
seen, at that point of perfection. 

Punctually at six o’clock he rapped boldly at Miss 
Heathery’s door, turning round to stare hard at Gemp, 
who came out eagerly to look and learn, before going in to 
have a fit— of temper, and then moving round to stare at 
Mrs. Pinet’s putty nose— rather a large one when fiattened 
against the pane, as she strained to get a glimpse of such 
an unusual proceeding. 

Several other neighbors had a look, and then the green 
door was opened. The visitor passed in, and was ushered 
into the neat little parlor where the tea was spread, and 
Miss Heathery welcomed him, trembling with gentle emo- 
tion, and admiring the firmness, under such circumstances, 
of the animal man. 

It was a delicious tea. There were Sally Lunns and toast 
biliously brimming in butter. Six spoonfuls of the best 
Bohea and Young Hyson were in the china pot. There 
was a new cottage loaf and a large pat of butter, with a 
raised cow grazing in a forest of parsley. There were thin 
slices of ham, and there were two glass dishes of preserve 
equal to that of which Mrs. Luttrell was so proud ; and 
then there was a cake from Prampton’s at the corner, 
where they sold the Sally Lunns. 

“I don’t often get a tea like this. Miss Heathery,” said 
Thickens, who was busy with his red-and-yellow bandana 
handkerchief spread over his drab lap. 

“I hope you are enjoying it,” she said, sweetly. 

“ Never enjoyed one more. Another cup, if you please, 
and I’ll take a little more of that ham.” 

It was not a little that he took, and that qualifying ad- 
jective is of no vahle in describing the toast and Sally 
Lunns that he ate solidly and seriously, as if it were his 
duty to do justice to the meal. 

And all the while poor Miss Heathery was only playing 
with her teacup and saucer. The only food of which she 
could partake was mental; and as she sat there dispensing 
her dainties and blushing with pleasure, she kept on think- 
ing, in a flutter of delight, that all the neighbors would 


mis MAN^S 


know Mr. Thickens was taking tea with her, and be talk^ 
ing about this wicked, daring escapade on the part of a 
single lady. 

He had not smiled, but he had seemed to be so contented, 
so happy, and he had asked her whether she worked that 
framed sampler on the wall, and the black cat with gold- 
thread eyes, and the embroidered cushion. 

He had asked her, too, if she liked poetry, and how long 
one of those rice-paper flowers took her to paint. He had 
admired, too, her poonah- painting, and had at last sat back 
in his chair with one drab leg crossed over the other, and 
looking delightfully at home. 

Still, he didn’ t seem disposed to come to the point ; and 
in the depth and subtlety of her cunning. Miss Heathery 
thought she would help him by leading the conversation 
toward matrimony. 

“Dr. and Mrs. Luttrell seem to age very much,” she 
said, softly. 

“Ah! they do,” said Thickens, tightening his lips and 
making a furrow across the lower part of his face. “ Yes; 
trouble, ma’am, trouble.” 

“ But they are a sweet couple, Mr. Thickens.” 

“Models, madam, models,” said the visitor; and he be- 
came very thoughtful, and there was a pause, during 
which Mr. Thickens took some tea and made a noise that 
sounded like “Soop!” 

“ Have you seen Sir Gordon lately ?” said Miss Heathery 
at last. 

“No, madam. Back soon, though, I hope.” 

“Ah!” sighed Miss Heathery, “do you think he will 
ever — ahem! marry now?” 

“Never, ma’am,” said Thickens, emphatically. “Too 
old.” 

“Oh, no, Mr. Thickens.” 

‘‘Oh, yes, Miss Heathery.” 

There was another pause. 

“ How beautiful Mrs. Hallam grows. So pale and sweet 
and grave. She looks to me always, Mr. Thickens, like 
some lovely lily. Dear Millicent, it seems only yesterday 
that she was married.” 

Thickens started and moved uneasily, sending a pang, 
that must have had a jealous birth, through Miss Heath- 
ery’s breast. 

“Seven years ago, Mr. Thickens.” 

“Six years, eleven months, two weeks, ma’am.” 

“Ah, how exact you are, Mr. Thickens!” 

“ Obliged to be, ma’am. Interest to calculate.” 

“But she looks thin, and not so happy -as I could wish.” 


99 


THIS MAN^S WIFH. 

“Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am,” said Thickens, paradox- 
ically. 

Again there was an uneasy change, for Mr. Thickens’ 
brow was puckered, and a couple of ridgy wrinkles ran 
across the top of his head. 

“And they made such a handsome pair!” 

Thickens nodded and frowned, but became placid the 
next moment, as his hostess said, softly: 

“That sweet child 1” 

“Ha! yes! Bless her !— Ha ! yes! Bless her !— Ha 1 yes! 
Bless her!” 

Miss Heathery stared, for her guest fired these ejacula- 
tions and benedictions at intervals, in a quick, eager way, 
smiling the while, and with his eyes brightening. 

She stared more the next minute, and trembled as she 
heard her visitor’s next utterance, and thought of a visit 
of his seven years ago, when she was out, and which he 
had explained by saying that he had come to ask her if she 
would like a pair of gold-fish, that was all. 

For all at once Mr. Thickens exclaimed, with his eyes 
glittering : 

“If I had married I should have liked to have a little 
girl like that.” 

There was a terrible pause here — terrible to only one, 
though; and then, in a hesitating voice. Miss Heathery 
went on, with that word “ marriage ” buzzing in her ears, 
and making her feel giddy: 

“ Do you— do you think it’s true, Mr. Thickens?” 

“ What, that I never married?” he said, sharply. 

“No, no; oh, dear me, no!” cried Miss Heathery; “I 
mean that poor Mrs. Hallam is terribly troubled about 
money-matters, and that they are very much in debt?” 

“Don’t know, ma’am; can’t say, ma’am; not my busi- 
ness, ma’am.” 

“ But they say the doctor is terribly pinched for money, 
too.” 

“ Very likely, ma’am. Every one is sometimes.” 

“How dreadful!” exclaimed Miss Heathery. 

“Very, ma’am. No; nothing more, thank you. Get 
these things taken away; I want to talk to you.” 

As the repast was cleared away. Miss Heathery felt that 
it was coming now; and as she grew more flushed, her 
head, with its curls and great tortoise-shell comb, trembled 
like a flower on its stalk. She got out her work, growing 
more and more agitated, but noticing tlmt Thickens gi-ew 
more cold and self-possessed. 

“The way of a great man,” she thought to herself, as 
she felt that she had led up to what was coming, and that 


100 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


she had never before been so wicked and daring in the 
whole course of her life. 

“It was the violets,” she said to herself; and then she 
started, trembled more than ever, and felt quite faint; for 
James Thickens drew his chair a little nearer, spread his 
handkerchief carefully across his drab legs, and said, 
suddenly: 

“Now, then, let’s to business.” 

Business? Well, yes; it was the great business of life, 
thought Miss Heathery, as she held her hands to her heart, 
ready to pour out the long pent-up sweetness with which 
it was charged. 

“Look here. Miss Heathery,” he went on, “I always 
liked you.” 

‘ ‘ Oh ! Mr. Thickens, ’ ’ she sighed : but she could not 
‘ ‘ look here ’ ’ at the visitor, who was playing dumb tunes 
upon the red-and-la vender check table-cover as if it were a 
harpsichord. 

“ I’ve always thought you were an extremely good little 
woman.” 

“ At last,” said Miss Heathery to herself. 

“You’ve got a nice little bit of money in our bank, and 
also the deeds of this house.” 

“ Don’t — don’t talk about money, Mr. Thickens, please.” 

“ Must,” he said, abruptly. “I’m a money man. Now, 
look here; you live on your little income we have in the 
bank?” 

“ Yes, Mr. Thickens,” sighed the lady. 

“Ah! yes, of course. Then look here. Dinham’s two 
houses are for sale next week.” 

“ Yes; I saw the bill,” she sighed. 

“ Let me buy them for you.” 

“ Buy them? They would cost too much, Mr. Thickens.” 

“Not they. You’ve got nearly enough, and the rest 
could stay on. They always let ; dare say you could keep 
on the present tenants. ’ ’ 

“But ” 

That “ but ’ ’ meant that she would not have those excuses 
for going to the bank. 

“ You’ll get good interest for your money, then, ma’am, 
and you get little now.” 

“ But, Mr. Thickens ” 

“ I wish you to do it, ma’am; and I hope that you will.” 

“ Oh, if you wish it, Mr. Thickens, of course I will,” she 
said, eagerly. 

“ That’s right; I do wish it. May I buy them for you?” 

“Oh, certainly, Mr. Thickens.” 

“ All right, ma’am, then I will. Now I must got home 
and feed my fishes. Good- evening.” 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


101 


He caught up his hat, shook hands, and was gone be- 
fore his hostess had recovered from her surprise and 
chagrin. 

“But never mind,” she said, rubbing her hands and 
making two rings click. 

The contact of those two rin^s made her gaze down, and 
then take and fondle one particular finger, while, in spite 
of the abruptness of her visitor, she gazed down dreamily 
at that finger, and sighed as she sunk into a reverie full of 
golden dreams. 

“So odd and peculiar,” she sighed, “but so different 
from any one else I ever knew ; and, ah me ! how shocking 
it all is; so many people must have seen him come.” 

CHAPTER IV. 

DR. LUTTRELL’S troubles. 

Dr. Luttrell had taken a rake and gone down into the 
garden, according to his custom ; and as soon as he had 
left the house, Mrs. Luttrell went to the window and 
watched him; after which, with a sorrowful face, she went 
back into the drawing-room, to sit down and weep silently 
for a few minutes. 

“ It breaks my heart to see her poor, sad face, and it’s 
breaking his, though he’s always laughing it off, and tell- 
ing me it’s all my nonsense. Oh, dear me! oh, dear me! 
how is it all to end I” 

She sat rocking herself to and fro for a few minutes, and 
then jumped up hastily. 

“It’s dreadful, that it is!” she sighed, “but I can’t stop 
here alone. Yes, I thought so!” she cried, as she went to 
the window, where she could catch sight of the doctor, 
rake in hand, but not using it according to his wont, for he 
was resting upon it, and thinking deeply. 

“ Mrs. Luttrell snatched at a great gray ball of worsted 
and her needles, and went down the garden, making the 
doctor start as she reached his side. 

“Eh? What is it?” he exclaimed. “Anything wrong 
at the manor?” 

“Wrong! what nonsense, dear!” said the old lady, 
cheerily. “I’m sure, Joseph, you ought to take some 
medicine. You grow quite nervous!” 

“ What made you come, then?” he cried, beginning to 
use his rake busily. 

“ Why, I thought I’d come and chat while you worked, 
and— Joseph, my dear, don’t— don’t look like that!” 

“It’s of no use, old girl,” said the doctor, with a sigh; 
“we may just as well look it boldly in the face. I’m sick 
of all this make-believe.” 


102 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ And so am I, dear. Let us be open.” 

“Ah, well! I will. Who is a man to be open to, if not 
to his old wife?” 

“There!” sobbed Mrs. Luttell, making a brave effort 
over herself, and speaking cheerfully. “I’m ready to 
face everything now !” 

“ Even poverty, my dear?” 

“ Even poverty ! What does it matter to us? Is it so 
very bad, dear?” 

“It could not be worse. We must give up this house, 
and sell everything. ’ ’ 

“But, Hallam?” 

“ Is a scoundrel ! — no, no ! I won’t say that of my child’s 
husband. But I cannot get a shilling of him; and when I 
saw him yesterday, and threatened to go to Sir Gor- 
don ’ ’ 

“Well, dear?” 

“ He told me to go if I dared.” 

“ And did you go?” 

“Did I go, mother? Did I go, with poor Milly’s white 
face before my eyes, to denounce her husband as a cheat 
and a rogue? He has had every penny I possessed for his 
speculations, and they seem all to have failed.” 

“ But you shouldn’t have let him have it, dear.” 

“ Not let him have it, wife ! How could I refuse my own 
son-in-law? Well, there, our savings are gone, and we 
must eat humble pie for the future. I have not much 
i:)ractice now, and I don’t think my few patients will leave 
me because I live in a cottage.” 

“Do you think if I went and spoke to Robert it would 
do any good?” 

“ It would make our poor darling miserable. She would 
be sure to know. As it is, she believes her husband to be 
one of the best of men. Am I, her father, to be the one 
who destroys that faith? Hush! here is some one com- 
ing!” 

For there was a quick, heavy step upon the gravel-walk, 
and Christie Bayle appeared. 

“ I thought I should find you,” he said, shaking hands 
warmly. “Well, doctor, how’s the garden? Why, Mrs. 
Luttrell, what black currants ! There — you may call me 
exacting, but tithe, ma’am, tithe— I put in my claim at 
once for two pots of black-currant jam. Those you gave 
me last year were invaluable. ” 

Mrs. Luttrell held his hand still, and laughed gently. 

“Little bits of fiattery for a very foolish old woman, my 
dear. ’ ’ 

“Flattery ! when I had such sore throats I could hardly 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


103 


speak, and yet had to preach! Not much flattery~eh, 
doctor?” 

“ Flattery? No, no!” said the doctor, dreamily. 

He glanced at Mrs. Luttrell, then at Bayle, who went on 
chatting pleasantly about the garden, and then checked 
him suddenly. 

” No one can hear us, Bayle. We want to talk to you— 
my wife and I.” 

“Certainly,” said Bayle, and his tone and manner 
changed. “ Is it anything I can do for you?” 

“Wait a minute— let me think,” said the doctor, sadlj^. 
“ Here, let’s go and sit down under the yew-hedge.” 

Bayle drew Mrs. Luttrell’s hand through his arm and 
patted it gently, as she looked up tenderly in his face— a 
tenderness mingled with pride, as if she had part and 
parcel in the sturdy, manly Englishman who led her to the 
pleasant old rustic seat in a nook of the great, green, 
closely-clipped wall, with its glorious prospect away over 
the fair country-side. 

“ I do love this old spot!” said Bajle, enthusiastically; 
for a glance at the doctor showed that he was nervous and 
hesitating, and he thought it well to give him time. “ Mrs. 
Luttrell, it is one of my sins that I cannot master envy. I 
always long for this old place and garden.” 

“Bayle!” cried the doctor, laying his hand upon the cu- 
rate’s knee, and with his former hesitancy chased away 
by an eager look, “are you in earnest?” 

“ In earnest, my dear sir? What about?” 

“ About— about the old place— the garden?” 

“ Earnest? Yes; but I am going to fight it down,” cried 
Bayle, laughing. 

“Don’t laugh, man. I am serious— things are serious 
with me.” 

“I was afraid so; but I dared not ask you. Come, 
come, Mrs. Luttrell,” he continued, gently, “don’t take it 
to heart ! Troubles come to us all ; and when they do there 
is their pleasant side, for then we learn the value of our 
friends, and I hope I am one. ’ ’ 

“ Friend, my dear!” said Mrs. Luttrell, vreeping gently, 
“ I’m sure you have always seemed to me like a son. Do, 
pray do, Joseph, tell him all.” 

“Be patient, wife, and I will— all that I can.” 

The doctor paused and cleared his throat, while Mrs. 
Luttrell sat with her hand in the curate’s. 

“You have set me thinking,” said the doctor, at last; 
“and what you said is like a ray of sunshine in my trou- 
ble.” 

“He’s always saying things that are like rays of sun- 
shine to us in our trouble, Joseph,” said Mrs. Luttrell, 


104 THIS 3IAN'S WIFE. 

looking up through her tears at the earnest countenance 
3jt) li0r sici.0 

“ Bayle, I shall have to lose the old place -the wife’s old 
home, of which she is so proud — and my old garden. It s 
a bitter blow at my time of life, but it must come.” 

“I was afraid there was something very wrong,” said 
Bayle ; ‘ ‘ but suppose we look the difficulties in the face. 
I’m a bit of a lawyer, you know, my dear doctor. Let’s 
see what can be done. I want to be delicate in my offer, 
but I must be blunt. I am not a poor man; my wants are 
very simple, and I spend so little; let me clear this diffi- 
culty away. There, we will not bother Mrs. Luttrell about 
money matters. Consider it settled.” 

“No,” said the doctor, firmly, “ that will not do. I ap- 
preciate it all, my dear boy, truly ; but there is only one 
way out of this difficulty — the old place must be sold. ’ ’ 

“Oh, Joseph, Joseph!” sighed Mrs. Luttrell, and the 
t0^I*S f0ll fOlSt 

“It must be, wife,” said the doctor, firmly. “Bayle, 
after what you have said, will you buy the old home? I 
could bear it better if it fell into your hands.” 

“Are you sure that it must be sold?” 

“There is no other way out of the difficulty, Bayle. 
Will you buy it?” 

“If you tell me that there is certainly no other way out 
of the difficulty, and that it is your wish and Mrs. Lut- 
trell’s, I will buy the place.” 

“Just as it stands— furniture — everything?” 

“ Just as it stands — furniture — everything.” 

“Ah!” ejaculated the doctor, with a sigh of relief. 
“Thank God, Bayle!” he cried, shaking the curate’s hand, 
energetically. “I have not felt ’ so much at rest for 
months. Now I want you to tell me a little about the town 
— about the people. What do they say?” 

“Say?” 

“Yes; say about us— about Hallam— -about Millicent, 
and about our darling. ’ ’ 

“My dear doctor, I shall have to go and fetch old Gemp. 
He will point at game, and tell you more in half an hour 
than I shall be affie to tell you in a year. Had we not bet- 
ter change the conversation?— here is Mrs. Hallam with 
Julia.” 

For just then the garden- gate clicked, and Millicent 
came into sight, with her child; the one grave and sad, the 
other all bright-eyed eagerness and excitement. 

“ There they are, mamma— in the yew-seat!” And the 
child raced across the lawn, bounded over a flower-bed, 
and leaped upon the doctor’s knee. 

“Dear old grandpa!” she cried, throwing her arm^ 


THIS MAN^S WIFH. 


i05 


round his neck and kissing him effusively, but only to leap 
down and climb on Mrs. Luttrell’s lap, clasping her neck, 
and laying her charming little face against the old lady’s 
cheek. “Dear, sweet old grandma!” she cried. 

Then, in all the excitement of her young hilarity, she 
was down again to seize Bayle’s hand. 

‘ ‘ Come and get some fruit and flowers. We may, 
mayn’t we, grandpa?” 

“I’m sure we may,” said Bayle, laughing, “only I 
must go.” 

“Oh!” cried the child, pouting, “don’t go, Mr. Bayle! 
I do like being in the garden with you so very, very 
much!” 

Mrs. Hallam turned her sweet, grave face to him. 

“ Can you give her only a few minutes? Julia will be so 
disappointed. ’ ’ 

“There!” cried Bayle, merrily, “you see, doctor, what 
a little tyrant she grows! She makes every one her 
slave!” 

“I don’t!” said the child, pouting. “Mamma always 
says a good run in the garden does me so much good, and 
it will do Mr. Bayle good, too. Thibs says he works too 
hard.” 

“Come along, then,” he cried, laughing; and the man 
seemed transformed, running off with the child to get a 
basket, while Millicent gazed after them, her sweet, sad 
face looking brighter, and the old people seemed to have 
forgotten their troubles, as they gazed smilingly after the 
pair. 

“Bless her!” said Mrs. Luttrell, swaying herself softly 
to and fro, and passing her hands along her knees. 

“ Yes, that’s the way, Milly. Give her plenty of fresh 
air. and laugh at me and my tribe.” 

Then quite an eager conversation ensued, Mrs. Hallam 
brightening up ; and on both sides every allusion to trouble 
was, by a pious kind of deception, kept out of sight, Milli- 
cent Hallam being in the fond belief that her parents did 
not even suspect that she was not thoroughly happy, while 
they were right in thinking that their child was ignorant 
of the straits to which they had been brought. 

“ Why, we are quite gay this morning!” cried Mrs. Lut- 
trell; “or, no; perhaps he comes as a patient, he looks so 
serious. Ah, Sir Gordon, it is quite an age since you were 
here!” 

“Yes, madam; I’m growing old and gouty, and— your 
servant, Mrs. Hallam, ’ ’ he said, raising his hat. ‘ ‘ Doctor, 
I wish I had your health. Ah, how peaceful and pleasant 
this garden looks ! They told me— old Gemp told me— that 
I should find Bayle here. I called at his lodgings— bless 

V.' " 


106 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


my soul ! how can a man with his income live in such a 
simple way! The woman said he was out visiting, and 
that old scoundrel said he was here. Egad ! I believe the 
fellow lies in wait to hear everything. Eh ! Ah, I’m right, 
I see!” 

Just then there was a silvery burst of childish laughter, 
followed by a deep voice shouting, ‘ ‘ Stop thief ! stop thief !’ ’ 
Then there was a scampering of feet, and J ulia came racing 
along, witl\ her dark curls flying, and Christie Bayle in 
full pursuit, right up to the group by the yew-hedge. 

“ She ran off with the basket,” cried Bayle. ” Did you 
ever see Ah, Sir Gordon!” he cried, holding out a cur- 

rant-stained hand. 

“Humph!” cried Sir Gordon, grimly, raising his glass 
to his eye, and looking at the big, brown, fruit-stained 
fingers, “mighty clerical, ’pon my honor, sir! Who do 
you think is coming to listen to a parson on Sundays who 
spends his weeks racing about gardens after little girls? 
No, I’m not going to spoil my gloves; they’re new.” 

“I— I don’t think you ought to speak to— to Mr. Bayle 
like that. Sir Gordon!” cried Mrs. Luttrell, flushing, and 
ruffling up like a hen. ‘ ‘ If you only knew him as we 
do ” 

“Oh, hush, mamma dear!” said Mrs. Hallam, smiling 
tenderly, and laying her hand upon her mother’s arm. 

“ Yes, my dear, but I cannot sit still and ” 

“ Know him, ma’am!” said Sir Gordon, sharply. “Oh, 
I know him by heart; read him through and through! He 
was never meant for a parson; he’s too rough!” 

“Really, Sir Gordon, I ” 

“Don’t defend me, Mrs. Luttrell,” said Bayle, merrily. 
“Sir Gordon doesn’t like me, and he makes this excuse 
for not coming to hear me preach.” 

“Well, little dark eyes!” cried Sir Gordon, taking 
Julia’s hand and leading her to the seat. “ Ah, that’s bet- 
ter! I do get tired so soon, doctor. Well, little dark 
eyes!” he continued, after seating himself, and drawing 
the child between his knees, after which he drew a clean, 
highly- scented, cambric handkerchief from his breast- 
pocket, and leaned forward. “Open your mouth, little 
one,” he said. 

Julia obeyed, parting her scarlet lips. 

“Now put out your tongue.” 

“Is grandpa teaching you to be a doctor?” said the 
child innocently. 

“No; but I wish he would, my dear,” said Sir Gordon, 
“sol could doctor one patient myself. Out with your 



le child obeyed, and the baronet gravely moistened 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


107 


his handkerchief thereon, and taking the soft little chin 
in one gloved hand, carefully removed a tiny purple fruit - 
stain. 

“That’s better. Now you are fit to kiss.” He bent 
down, and kissed the child slowly. “ Don’t like me much, 
do you, Julia?” 

“I don’t know,” said the child, looking up at him with 
her large, serious eyes. “ Sometimes I do. when you don’t 
talk crossly to me; but sometimes I don’t. I don't like 
you half so well as I do Mr. Bayle.” 

“ But he’s always setting you hard lessons, and puzzling 
your brains, isn’t he?” 

“No,” said the child, shaking her head. “Oh no! we 
have such fun over my lessons every morning! But I do 
like you too— a little.” 

“ Come, that’s a comfort!” said Sir Gordon, rising again. 
‘ ‘ There, I must go. I want to carry oft Mr. Bayle — on 
business.” 

Mrs. Hallam glanced sharply from one to the other, and 
then, to conceal her agitation, bent down over her child, 
and began to smooth her tangled curls. 


CHAPTER V. 

SIR GORDON BOURNE ASKS QUESTIONS. 

“I WANT a few words with you, Bayle,” said Sir Gor- 
don, as the pair walked back toward the town. 

“Shall we talk here, or will you come to my rooms?” 
and he indicated Mrs. Pinet’s house, to which he had 
moved when Hallam married. 

“Your rooms? No, man; I never feel as if I can breathe 
in your stuffy lodgings. How can you exist in them?” 

“ I do, and very happily,” said Bayle, laughing. “ Shall 
we go to your private room at the bank?” 

“Bless my soul! no, man!” cried Sir Gordon, hastily. 
“ The very last place. Let’s get out in the fields, and talk 
there. More room, and no tattling, inquisitive people 
about. No Gemps.” 

“Very good,” said Bayle, wondering, and very anxious 
at heart, for he knew the baronet’s proclivities. 

They turned off on to one of the footpaths, chatting 
upon indifferent matters, till all at once Sir Gordon ex- 
claimed : 

“ ’Pon mv honor, I don’t think I like you, Bayle.” 

“I’m very sorry. Sir Gordon, because I really do like 
you. I’ve always found you a true gentleman at heart, 
and ” 

“Stuff, sir! silence, sir! Egad, sir, will you hold your 
tongue? Talking such nonsense to a confirmed valetudi- 


108 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


narian with a soured life, and — no! I don’t want to talk 
about myself. I was going to say that I did not like 
you.” 

“ You did say so,” replied the curate, smiling. 

“ Ah! well, it’s the truth. Why do you stop here?” 

‘ ‘ To annoy you, perhaps, ’ ’ said Bay le, laughing. “Well, 
no; I like my people, and I’m vain enough to think I am 
able to do a little good.” 

“You do, Bayle, you do,” said Sir Gordon, taking his 
arm and leaning upon him in a confidential way. “ You’re 
a good fellow, Bayle; and Castor here would miss you hor- 
ribly it you left.” 

“ Oh, nonsense.” 

“It is not nonsense, sir. Why, you do more good 
among the people in one year than I have done in all my 
life.” 

“Well, I think I have amerced you pretty well lately 
for my poor, Sir Gordon. ” 

“Yes, man, but it was your doing. I shouldn’t have 
given a shilling. But look here, I was going to say, Avhy 
is it that I come to you, and make such a confidant of 
you?” 

“Do you wish to confide something to me now?” 

“ Yes, of course; one can’t go to one’s solicitor, and I’ve 
no friends. Plenty of club acquaintances, but no friends. 
There, don’t shake your head like that, man. Well, only 
a few. By the way, charming little girl that.” 

“ What, little Julie?” cried Bayle, with his cheeks flush- 
ing with pleasure. 

“ Yes; and your prime favorite, I see. I don’t like her, 
though. Too much of her father.” 

“ She has his eyes and hair,” said Bayle, thoughtfully; 
“but there is the sweet, grave look in her face that her 
mother used to wear when I first came to Castor.” 

“Hush! silence! hold your tongue!” cried Sir Gordon, 
impatiently. ‘ ‘ Look here— her father— I want to talk 
about him.” 

“About Mr. Hallam?” 

“Yes. What do you think of him now?” 

Bayle laid his hand upon Sir Gordon’s. 

“ We ai‘e old friends, Sir Gordon; I know your little se- 
crets, you know mine. Don’t ask me that question.” 

“Asa very old, trusty friend, I do ask you. Bayle, it 
is a duty. Look here, man: I hold an important trust in 
connection with that bank. I’m afraid I have not done 
my duty. It is irksome to me, a wealthy man, and I am 
so much away yachting. Let me see; you have never had 
dealings with us.” 

“No. Sir Gordon, never.” 


TIII^ 3IAN^S WIFE. 


109 


“Well, as I was saying, I am so much away. You are 
always feeling the pulses of the people. Now, as you are 
a great deal at Hallam’s, tell me as a friend in a peculiar 
position, what do you think of Hallam?” 

“Do you mean as a friend?” 

“ I mean as a business man, as our manager. What do 
the people say?” 

“ I cannot retail to you all their little tattle. Sir Gordon. 
Look here, sir, what do you mean? Speak out.” 

Sir Gordon grew red, and was silent for a few minutes. 

“I will be plain, Bayle,” he said at last. “The fact is, 
I am very uneasy.” 

“About Hallam?” 

“Yes. He occupies a position of great trust.” 

“But surely Mr. Trampleasure shares it?” 

“ Trampleasure shares nothing. He’s a mere dummy, a 
bank ornament. There! I don’t say I suspect Hallam, 
but I cannot help seeing that he is living far beyond his 
means.” 

“But you have the books — the statements?” 

“Yes; and everything is perfectly correct. Ido know 
something about figures, and at our last audit there was 
not a penny wrong. ’ ’ 

Bayle drew a breath full of relief. 

“Every security, every deed, was in its place, and the 
bank was never in a more prosperous state.” 

“Then of what do you complain?” 

“That is what I do not know. All I know, Bayle, is 
that I am uneasy and dissatisfied about him. Can you 
help me?” 

“How can I help you?” 

“Can you tell me something to set my mind at rest, 
and make me think that Hallam is a strictly honorable 
man, so that I can go off again yachting? I cannot exist 
away from the sea.” 

“ I am afraid I can tell you nothing. Sir Gordon.” 

“ Not from friend to friend?” 

“ I am the trusted friend of the Hallams. I am free of 
their house. They have intrusted a great deal of the edu- 
cation of their child to me.” 

“Well, tell me this. You know the people. What do 
they say of Hallam in the town?” 

“I have never heard an unkind, word respecting him 
unless from disappointed people, to whom, I suppose from 
want of confidence in their securities, he has refused 
loans.” 

“ That’s praising him,” said Sir Gordon. “Do the peo- 
ple seem to trust him?” 

“ Oh, certainly.” 


110 


THIS MAN^S WIFH, 


“ More praise; but do they approve of his way of living? 
Hasn’t he a lot of debts in the town?” 

Bayle was silent. 

“Ah! that pinches. Well, now, does not that seem 
strange?” 

“I know nothing whatever of Mr. Hallam’s private 
affairs. He may perhaps have lost his own money, and 
his indebtedness be due to his endeavors to recoup him- 
self.” , , , „ 

‘ ‘ Yes, ’ ’ said Sir Gordon, dryly. ‘ ‘ What a lovely day. 

“ It is delightful,” said the curate, with a sigh of relief, 
as they turned back. 

“I was going to start to-morrow for a run up the Norway 
fiords.” 

“ Indeed— so soon?” 

“Yes,” said Sir Gordon, dryly; “but lam not going 
now.” 


They parted at the entrance of the town, and directly 
after the curate became aware of the fact that old Gemp 
was looking at him very intently. 

He forgot it the next moment as he entered his room, to 
be followed directly after by his landlady, who drew his 
attention to a note upon the chimney-piece in Thickens’ 
formal, clerkly hand. 

“ One of the school-children brought this, sir; and, beg- 
ging your pardon,” cried the woman, coloring indignantly, 
“ if it isn’t making too bold to ask such a thing of you, 
sir, don’t you think you might say a few words next Sun- 
day about Poll-prying and asking questions?” 

“Really,” said Bayle, smiling, “I’m afraid it would be 
very much out of place, Mrs. Pinet.” 

“ Well, I’m sorry you say so, sir, for the way that Gemp 
goes on gets to be beyond bearing. He actually stopped 
that child, took the letter from him, read the direction, and 
then asked the boy who it was from, and whether he was 
to wait for an answer.” 


“Nevermind. Mrs. Pinet; it is very complimentary of 
Mr. Gemp to take so much interest in my affairs.” 

“It made me feel quite popped, sir,” cried the woman; 
“ but of course it be no business of mine.” 

Bayle read the letter, and changed color, as he connected 
ib with Sir Gordon’s questions, for it was a request that the 
curate would come up and see Thickens that evening on 
very particular business. 


THIS 3IAN’S WIFE. 


Hi 


CHAPTER VI. 

JAMES THICKENS MAKES A COMMUNICATION. 

“ Master’s in the garden feeding his fish,” said the girl, 
as she admitted Bayle. ” ITl go and tell him you’re here, 
sir.” 

” No; let me go to him,” said Bayle, quietly. 

The girl led the way down a red-brick floored passage, 
and opened a door, through which the visitor passed, and 
then stood looking at the scene before him. 

There was not much garden, but James Thickens was 
proud of it, because it was his own. It was only a strip, 
divided into two beds by a narrow walk of red bricks— so 
many laid flat, with others set on edge to keep the earth 
from falling over and sullying the well-scrubbed path, 
wliich was so arranged by its master that the spigot of the 
rain-water butt could be turned on now and then, and a 
birch broom brought into requisition to keep all clean. 

Each bed was a mass of roses — dwarf roses that crept 
along the ground by the path, and then others that grew 
taller till the red brick wall on either side was reached, 
and this was clambered, surmounted, and almost com- 
pletely hidden by clusters of small blossoms. No other 
flower grew in this patch of a garden, but, save in the very 
inclement weather, there were always buds and blossoms 
to be picked, and James Thickens was content. 

From where Bayle stood he could see Thickens kneeling 
down at the side of the great bricked and cemented tank 
tiiat extended across the bottom of his and the two adjoin- 
ing gardens, while beyond was the steam-mill, where Maw- 
son the miller had introduced that great power to work 
his machinery. He it was who had contrived the tank for 
some scheme in connection with the mill, and had then 
made some other plan, after leading into it through a pipe 
the clear water of the dam on the other side of the mill, 
and arranging a proper exit when it should be too full. 
Then he had given it up as unnecessary, merely turning it 
into a steam-pipe, to get rid of the waste, and finally had 
let it to Thickens for his whim. 

There was a certain prettiness about the place seen from 
the bank clerk’s rose-garden. Facing you was the quaintly 
built mill, one mass of ivy from that point of view, while 
numberless strands ran riot along the stone edge of the 
tank, and hung down to kiss the water with their tips. 
To the left there was the great elder-clump, that was a 
mass of creamy bloom in summer, and of clustering black- 
berries in autumn, till the birds had cleared all off. 

As Bayle stood looking down, he could see the bank clerk 


112 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


upon his knees, bending over the edge of the pool, and 
holding his fingers in the water. 

Every now and then he took a few crumbs of broken, 
well-boiled rice from a basin at his side, and scattered 
them over the pool, while, when he had done this, he held 
the tips of his fingers in the water. 

He was so intent upon his task, that he did not hear the 
visitor’s approach, so that when Bayle was close up he 
could see the limpid water glowing with the bright scales 
of the golden orange-fish that were feeding eagerly in the 
soft evening light. Now quite a score of the brilliant me- 
tallic creatures would be making at the crumbs of rice. 
Then there would be as many — quite a little shoal — that 
were of a soft, pearly silver, while mingled with them 
were others that seemed laced with sable velvet or purple 
bands. 

The secret of the hand-dipping was plain, too, for as 
Thickens softly played his fingers on the surface, first one 
and then another would swim up and seem to kiss the ends, 
taking therefrom some snack of rice, to dart awaj^ directly 
with a flourish of the tail, which set the water all a-ripple, 
and made it flash in the evening light. . 

Thickens was talking to his pets, calling them by many 
an endearing name as they swam up, kissed his finger-tips, 
and darted away, till, becoming conscious of some one in 
the garden, he started to his feet, but stooped quickly 
again to pick up the basin, dip a little water, rinse out the 
vessel, and throw its contents far and wide. 

“I did not hear you come, Mr. Bayle,” he said, hastily. 

” I ought to have spoken,” replied the curate, gravely. 
“How tame your fishes are!” 

“ Yes, sir, yes. They’ve got to know people, from being 
petted so. Dip your fingers in the water, and they’ll 
come.” 

The visitor bent down and followed the example he had 
seen, with the result that fish after fish swam up, touched 
a white finger-tip with its soft wet mouth, and then darted 
off. 

“Strange pets, Mr. Thickens, are they not?” 

“ Yes, sir, yes. But I like them,” said Thickens, with a 
droll look sideways at his visitor. “ You see the water's 
alvvays gently warmed from the mill there, and that 
makes them thrive. They put one in mind of gold and 
silver, sir, and the bank. And they’re nice companions: 
they don’t talk.” 

He seemed then to have remembered something. A 
curious rigidity came over him ; and though his visitor was. 
disposed to linger by the pool where, in the evening light, 
the brightly colored fish glowed like dropped flakes of the 


THIS 3IAN^S VFIFE. 


113 


sunset, Thickens drew back for him to pass, and then al- 
most backed him into the house. 

“Sit down, please, Mr. Bayle,” he said, rather huskily; 
and he placed a chair for his visitor. “You got my note, 
then?” 

“ Yes, and I came on. You want my ” 

“ Help and advice, sir; that’s it. I’m in a cleft stick, sir 
.—fast.” 

“ I’m sorry,” said Bayle, earnestly, for Thickens paused. 
“ Is it anything serious?” 

Thickens nodded, sat down astride a Windsor chair, hold- 
ing tightly by the curved back, and rested his upper teeth 
on the top, tapping the wood gently. 

Bayle waited a few moments for him to go on; but he 
only began rubbing at the top of the chair-back, and stared 
at his visitor. 

“You say it is serious, Mr. Thickens.” 

“ Terribly, sir.” 

“ Is it— is it a monetary question?” 

Thickens raised his head, nodded, and lowered it again 
till his teeth touched the chair-back. 

“ Some one in difficulties?” 

Thickens nodded. 

“ Not you, Mr. Thickens. You are too careful a man.’^ 

“No; not me, sir.” 

“Some friend?” 

Thickens shook his head, and there was silence for a few 
moments, only broken by the dull sound of the clerk’s 
teeth upon the chair. 

*• Do you’want me to advance some money to a person in 
distress?” 

Thickens raised his head quickly, and looked sharply in 
his visitor’s eye; but only to lower his head again. 

“ No, no,” he said. 

“Then will you explain yourself?” said the curate, 
gravely. 

“ Yes. Give me time. It’s hard work. You don’t 
know.” 

Bayle looked at him curiously, and waited for some min- 
utes l)efore Thickens spoke again. 

“Yes,” he said, suddenly, and as if his words were the 
result of deep thought; “yes. I’ll tell you. I did think I 
wouldn’t speak after all; but it’s all right, and I will. I 
can trust you, Mr. Bayle?” 

“ I hope so, Mr. Thickens.” 

“Yes, I can trust you. I used to think you were too 
young and boyish, but you’re older much, and I didn’t un- 
derstand you tlien as I do now.” 

“I was very young when I first came, Mr. Thickens,” 


114 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


said Bayle, smiling. “It was almost presumption for me 
to undertake such a duty. Well, what is your trouble?” 

“Give me time, man, give me time,” said Thickens, 
fiercely. “You don’t know what it is to be in my place. I 
am a confidential clerk, and it is like being torn up by the 
roots to have to speak as I want to speak. ’ ’ 

“If it is a matter of confidence, ought you to speak to 
me, Mr. Thickens?” said Bayle, gravely. “Do I under- 
derstand you to say it is a bank matter?” 

“ That’s it, sir.” 

“ Then why not go to Mr. Dixon?” 

Thickens shook his head. 

“ Mr. Trampleasure, or Sir Gordon Bourne?” 

“ They’ll know soon enough,” said Thickens, grimly. 

A curious feeling of horror came over Bayle as he heard 
these words, the cold, damp dew gathered on his brow, his 
hands felt moist, and his heart began to beat heavily. 

He could not have told why this was, only that a vague 
sense of some terrible horror oppressed him. He felt that 
he was about to receive some blow, and that he was weak, 
unnerved and unprepared for the shock, just when he re- 
quired all his faculties to be at their strongest and best. 

And yet the clerk had said so little, nothing that could 
be considered as leading up to the horror the hearer fore- 
saw. All the same, though, Bayle’s imagination seized 
upon the few scant words— those few dry bones of utter- 
ance, clothed them with fiesh, and made of them giants of 
terror before whose presence he shook and felt cowed. 

“ Tell me,” he said at last, and his voice sounded strange 
to him— “ tell me all.” 

There was another pause, and then Thickens, who looked 
curiously troubled and gray, sat up. 

“ Yes,” he said, “ ITl tell you all. I can trust you, Mr. 
Bayle. I don’t come to you because you are a priest, but 
because you are a man — a gentleman who will help me, 
and I want to do what’s right.” 

“I know— I believe you do. Thickens,” said the curate, 
huskily; and he looked at him almost reproachfully, as if 
blaming him for the pain that he was about to give. 

He felt all this. He could not have explained why; but 
as plainly as if he had been forewarned, he knew that some 
terrible blow w^as about to fall. 

Thickens sat staring straight before him no\v, gnawing 
hard at one of his nails, and looking like a man having a 
hard struggle with himself. 

It was a very plainly furnished but pleasant little room, 
whose wide, low window had a broad sill upon which some 
half-dozen fiowers bloomed; and just then, as the two men 
sat facing each other, the last glow of evening lit up the 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 115 

curate's troubled face, and left that of Thickens more and 
more in the shade. 

“That’s better,” he said, with a half -laugh; “I wish I 
had left it till it was dark. Look here, Mr. Bayle, I’ve 
been in trouble these five years past.” 

“You?” 

“Yes, sir. I say it again, I’ve been in trouble these six 
or seven years past, and it’s been a trouble that began like 
a little cloud, as you say, no bigger than a man’s hand ; 
and it grew slowly bigger and bigger, till it’s got to be a 
great, thick, black darkness, covering everything before 
the storm bursts.” 

“ Don’t talk riddles, man; speak out.” 

“Parables, Mr. Bayle, sir, parables. Give me time, sir, 
give me time. You don’t know what it is to a man who 
has trained himself from a boy to be close and keep se- 
crets, to have to bring them out of himself and lay them 
all bare.” 

“ I’ll be patient; but you are torturing me. Go on.” 

“ I felt it would, and that’s one of the things that’s kept 
me back, sir. But I am going to speak now.” 

“Goon.” 

“Well, sir, a bank clerk is trained to be suspicious. 
Every new customer who comes to the bank is an object of 
suspicion to a man like me. He may want to cheat us. 
Every check that’s drawn is an object of suspicion, because 
it may be a forgery, or the drawer may not have a balance 
to meet it. Then money — the number of bad coins I’ve de- 
tected, sir, would fill a big chest full of sham gold and sil- 
ver, so that one grows to doubt and suspect every sovereign 
one handles. Then, sir, there’s men in general, and even 
your own people. It’s a bad life, sir, a bad life, a bank 
clerk’s, for you grow at last so that you even begin to 
doubt yourself.” 

“Ah! but that is a morbid feeling. Thickens.” 

“ No, sir, it’s a true one. I doubt myself. I’ve had such 
a fight as you couldn’t believe, doubting myself, and 
whether I was right, but I think I am.” 

“Well,” said the curate, smiling a faint, dejected smile; 
“ but you are still keeping me in the dark.” 

“It will be light directlj^,” said Thickens, fiercely, 
“ light that is blinding. I dread almost to speak and let 
you hear.” 

“ Go on, man, go on.” 

“I will, sir. Well, for years past I’ve been in doubt 
about our bank.” 

“ Dixon’s, that every one trusts?” 

“ Yes, sir, that’s it. Dixon’s has been trusted by every- 
body. Dixon’s, after a hundred years’ trial, has grown to 


116 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


be looked upon as the truth in commerce. It has been like 
a sort of money-mill set going a hundred years ago, and 
once set going, it has gone on of itself, always grinding 
coin.” 

” But you don’t mean to tell me that the bank is unsafe? 
Man, man, it means ruin to hundreds of our friends.” 

He spoke in an impassioned way, but at the same time 
he felt more himself; the vague horror had grown less. 

” Hear me out, sir; hear me out,” said Thickens, dryly. 
” Years ago, sir, I began to doubt; and then I doubted my- 
self, and then I doubted again, but even then I couldn’t 
believe. Doubts are no use to a man like me, sir ; he must 
have figures, and figures I couldn’t get to prove it, sir. 
I must be able to balance a couple of pages, and then if the 
balance is on the wrong side there’s something to go upon. 
It has taken years to get these figures, but I’ve got them 
now.” 

“Thickens, you are torturing me with this slow pream- 
ble.” 

“ For a few minutes, sir,” said the clerk, pathetically — 
“ for an hour. It has tortured me for years. Listen, sir, 
I began to doubt — not Dixon’s stability, but something 
else.” 

The vague horror began to increase again, and Christie 
Bayle’s hands grew more damp. 

“ I have saved a little money, and that and my writings 
were in the bank. I withdrew everything. Cowardly? 
Dishonest? Perhaps it was; but I doubted, sir, and it was 
my little all. Then you’ll say, if I had these doubts I ought 
to have spoken. If I had been sure, perhaps I might ; but 
I tell you, sir, they were doubts. I couldn’t be false to 
my friends, though; and where here and there they’ve 
consulted me about their little bits of money I’ve found 
out investments for them, or advised them to buy house 
property. A clergyman for whom I changed a check one 
day said it would be convenient for him to have a little 
banking account with Dixon’s, and I said if I had an ac- 
count with a good bank in London I wouldn’t change it. 
Never change your banker, I said.” 

“Yes Thickens, you did,” said the curate, eagerly, “and 
I have followed your advice. But you are keeping me in 
suspense. Tell me, is there risk of Dixon’s having to close 
its doors?” 

“No, sir, no; it’s not so bad as that. Old Mr. Dixon is 
very rich, and he'd give his last penny to put things 
straight. Sir Gordon Bourne is an honorable gentleman — 
one who would sacrifice his fortune so that he might hold 
up his head. But things are bad, sir, bad. How bad I 
don’t know,” 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


117 


“But, good heavens, man! your half-yearly balance- 
sheets — your books?” 

“All kept right, sir, and wonderfully correct. Every- 
thing looks well in the books.” 

“ Then how is it?” 

“ The securities, sir,” said Thickens, with his lip quiver- 
ing. “I’ve done a scoundrelly thing.” 

“You, Thickens? You? I thought you were as honest 
a man as ever trod this earth!” 

“ Me, sir?” said the clerk, grimly. “Oh no! oh no! I’m 
a gambler— I am.” 

The vague horror was dissolving fast into thin mist. 

“ You astound me!” cried Bayle, as he thought of Sir 
Gordon’s doubts of Hallam. “You, in your position of 
trust! What are you going to do?” 

The grim smile on James Thickens’ lip grow more satur- 
nine as he said : 

“Make a clean breast of it, sir. That’s why I sent for 
you.” 

“ But, my good man !— oh, for Heaven’s sake, go with me 
at once to Sir Gordon and Mr. Hallam. I ought not to 
listen to this alone.” 

“ You’re going to hear it all alone,” said James Thickens, 
growing still more grim of aspect; “and when I’ve done 
you’re going to give me your advice.” 

Bayle gazed at him sternly, but with the strange oppres- 
sion gone, and the shadow of the vague horror fading into 
nothingness. 

“I’m confessing to you, sir, just as if I were a Boman 
Catholic, and you were a priest.” 

‘ ‘ But I decline to receive your confession on such terms, 
James Thickens,” cried Bayle, sternly. “ I warn you that, 
if you make me the recipient of your confidence, I must be 
Hee to lay the case before your employers.” 

“Yes, of course,” said Thickens, with the same grim 
smile. “ Hear me out, Mr. Bayle, sir; you’d never think 
it of me, who came regularly to church, and never missed 
—you’d never think I had false keys made to our safe ; but 
I did. Two months ago, in London.” 

Bayle involuntarily drew back his chair, and Thickens 
laughed— a little hard, dry laugh. 

“Don’t be hard on the man, Mr. Bayle, who advised 
you not to put your money and securities in at Dixon’s.” 

“ Go on, sir,” said the curate, sternly. 

“Yes, I will go on!” cried Thickens, speaking now ex- 
citedly, in a low, harsh voice. “ I can’t carry on that non- 
sense. Look here, sir,” he continued, shuffling his chair 
closer to his visitor, and getting hold of his sleeve, ‘ ‘ you 
don’t know our habits at the bank. Everything is locked 


118 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


up in our strong-room, and Hallam keeps tlie key of that, 
and carefully too! 1 go in and out there often, but it’s 
always when he’s in the room ; and when he’s not there he 
always locks it, so that, though I tried for years to get in 
there, I never had a chance. ’ ’ 

“Wretched maul” cried Bayle, trying to shake off his 
grip, but Thickens’ fingers closed upon his arm like a 
claw. 

“Yes, I was wretched, and that’s why I had the keys 
made, and altered again and again till I could get them to 
fit. Then one day I had my chance. Hallam went over 
to Lincoln, and I had a good examination of the different 
securities, shares, deeds — scrip of all kinds — that I had 
down on a paper, an abstract from my books.” 

“Well, sir?” 

“ Well, sir! Half of them are not there. They’re dum- 
mies tied up and docketed.” 

“But the real deeds?” 

“ Pledged for advances in all sorts of quarters. Money 
raised upon them at a dozen banks, perhaps, in town.” 

“But — I don’t understand you. Thickens; you do not 
mean that you ” 

“That I, Mr. Bayle!” cried the clerk, passionately. 
“ Shame upon you; do you think I could be such a scoun- 
drel, such a thief?” 

“ But these deeds, and this scrip, what are they all?” 

“ Valuable securities placed in Dixon’s hands for safety. ” 

“ And they are gone?” 

/ “To an enormous amount.” 

“But tell me,” panted Bayle, with the horror vague no 
longer, but seeming to have assumed form and substance, 
and to be crushing him down, “who has done this thing?” 

“Who had the care of them, sir?” 

“Thickens,” cried Bayle, starting from his chair, and 
catching at the mantel-piece, for the room seemed to swim 
round, and he swept an ornament from ihe shelf, which 
fell with a crash — “Thickens, for Heaven’s sake, don’t sav 
that.” 

“I must say it, sir. What am I to do? I’ve doubted 
him for years.” 

‘ ‘ But the money— he has lived extravagantly ; but oh, 
it is impossible. It can’t be much.” 

“ Much, sir? It’s fifty thousand pounds if it’s a penny !” 

“But, Thickens, it means felony, criminal prosecution, a 
trial.” 

He spoke hoarsely, and his hands were trembling. 

“ It means transportation for one-and- twenty years, sir; 
perhaps for life.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFK. 


119 


Bayle’s face was ashy, and with lips apart he stood gaz- 
ing at the grim, quiet clerk. 

“ Man, man!” he cried at last; “ it can’t be true.” 

“Do you doubt, too, sir? Well, it’s natural. I used to, 
and I tried to doubt it ; a hundred times over when I was 
going to be sure that he was a villain, I used to say to my- 
self as I went and fed my fish, ‘ It’s impossible, a man 
with a wife and child like ’ ” 

‘‘Hush! for Heaven’s sake, hush!” cried Bayle, passion- 
ately ; and then, with a burst of fury, he caught the clerk 
by the throat. ‘‘It is a lie, Robert Hallam could not be 
such a wretch as that.” 

‘‘Mr. Bayle, sir,” said Thickens, calmly, and in an ap- 
pealing tone; ‘‘ can’t you see now, sir, why I sent to you? 
Do you think I don’t know how you loved that lady, and 
how much she and her bright little fairy of a child are to 
you? Why, sir, if it hadn’t been for them I should have 
gone straight to Sir Gordon, and before now that scoundrel 
would have been in Lincoln jail.” 

‘‘But you are mistaken. Thickens. Man, man, think 
what you are saying. Such a charge would break her 
heart, would brand that poor, innocent child as the 
daughter of a felon. Oh, it cannot be !” he cried, excitedly. 
‘‘ Heaven would not suffer such a wrong.” 

” I’ve been years proving it, sir; years,” said Thickens, 
slowly; ‘‘and until I was sure, I’ve been as silent as the 
dead. Fifty thousand pounds’ worth of securities at least 
have been taken from that safe, and dummies fill up the 
spaces. Why, sir, a score of times people have wanted 
these deeds, and he has put them off for a few days till he 
could go up to London, raise money on others, and get 
those wanted from the banker’s hands.” 

‘‘ But you knew something of this, then?” 

‘‘ Yes, I knew it, sir— that is, I suspected it. Until I got 
the keys made, I was not sure.” 

‘‘ Does— does any one else know of this?” 

‘‘Yes, sir.” 

“Ah!” ejaculated Bayle, with quite a moan. 

‘‘Robert Hallam, sir.” 

“ Oh !” ejaculated Bayle, drawing a breath full of relief. 
‘‘You have not told a soul?” 

‘‘ No, sir. I said to myself, there’s that sweet lady and 
her little child ; and that stopped me. I said to myself, I 
must go to the trustiest friend they have, sir ; and that was 
you. Now, sir, I have told you all. The simple truth. 
What am I to do?” 

Christie Bayle dropped into a chair, his eyes staring, his 
blanched face drawn, and his lips apart, as he conjured up 
the scene that must take place— the arrest, the wreck of 


120 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


Millicent Hallam’s life, the suffering that must be her lot. 
And at last, half-maddened, he started up, and stood, with 
clinched hands, gazing fiercely at the man who had fired 
this train. 

“Well, sir,” said Thickens, coldly, “will you get them 
and the old people away before the exposure comes?” 

“No!” cried Bayle, fiercely; “this must not — shall not 
be. It must be some mistake. Mr. Hallam could not do 
such a wrong. Man, man, do you not see that such a 
charge would break his wife’s heart?” 

“ It was in the hope that you would do something for 
them, sir, that I told you all this first.” 

“But we must see Mr. Dixon and Sir Gordon at once.” 

“ And they will— you know what.” 

“Oh, the matter must be hushed up! It would kill 
her!” cried Bayle, incoherently. “Mr. Thickens, you 
stand there like this man’s judge; have you not made some 
mistake?” 

Thickens shook his head and tightened his lips to a thin 
line. 

‘ ‘ Do you not see what it would do? Have you no mercy ?’ ’ 

“Mr. Bayle, sir,” said Thickens, slowly, “this has 
served you as it served me. It’s so stunning that it takes 
you off your head. Am I, the servant of my good masters, 
knowing what I do, to hide this from them till the crash 
comes first— the crash that is only a matter of time? Do 
you advise, do you wish me to do this?” 

Christie Bayle sat with his hands clasping his forehead, 
for the pain he suffered seemed greater than he could bear. 
He had known for long enough that Hallam was a harsh 
husband and a bad father; but it had never even entered his 
dreams that he was other than an honest man. And now 
he was asked to decide upon this momentous matter, when 
his decision must bring ruin, perhaps even death, to the 
woman he esteemed, and misery to the sweet, helpless 
child he had grown to love» 

It was to him as if he were being exposed to some 
temptation, for even though his love for Millicent had long 
been dead, to live again in another form for her child, 
Christie Bayle would have gone through any suffering for 
her sake. And now, as he bent down there, the struggle 
was almost greater than he could bear. 

And there for long he sat, crushed and stunned by this 
terrible stroke that had fallen upon him, and was about to 
fall upon the helpless wife and child. His mind seemed 
chaotic. His reasoning powers failed, and as he kept 
clinging to little scraps of hope, they seemed to be snatched 
away. 

It was with a heart full of grief mingled with rage that 


THIS MAN'S WIFE, 


121 


he started to his feet at last, and faced Thickens, for the 
clerk had again spoken in measured tones : 

“ Mr. Bayle, what am I to do?” 

The curate gazed at him piteously, as he essayed to 
speak ; but the words seemed smothered as they strugerled 
in his heart. 

Then, by a supreme effort, he mastered his emotion, and 
drew himself up. 

“ Once more, sir, what am I to do?” 

“ Your duty,” said Christie Bayle ; and with throbbing 
brain he turned and left the house. 


CHAPTER VII. 

CHRISTIE BAYLE CHANGES HIS MIND. 

“ Heaven help me! What shall I do?” groaned Christie 
Bayle, as he paced his room hour .after hour into the 
night. A dozen times over he had been on the point 
of going to Thickens, awaking him, and forcing him to de- 
clare that he would keep the fearful discovery a secret 
until something could be done. 

“It is too horrible,” he said. “Poor Millicent! The 
disgrace! It would kill her.” 

went to the desk and began to examine his papers 
and his bank-book. 

Then he relocked his desk and paced the room again. 

“Julie, my poor little child, too. The horror and dis- 
grace to rest upon her little innocent head. Oh, it is too 
dreadful! Will morning never come?” 

The hours glided slowly by, and that weary exclamation 
rose to his lips again and again. 

“Will morning never come?” 

It seemed as if it never would be day; but long before 
the first faint rays had streaked the east he had made his 
plans. 

“It is for her sake; for her child’s sake. At whatever 
cost, I must try and save them.” 

His first ideas were to go straight to Hallam’s house; but 
such a course would have excited notice. He felt that Mil- 
licent would think it strange if he went there early. Time 
was of the greatest importance, but he felt that he must 
not be too hasty, so seated himself to try and calm the 
throbbings of his brain, and to make himself cool and 
judicial for the task he had in hand. 

Soon after seven he walked quietly down-stairs and took 
his hat. It would excite no surprise, he thought, for him 
to be going for a morning walk, and, drawing in a long 
breath of the sweet, refreshing air, he began to stride up 
the street. 


122 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“How bright and beautiful is Thy earth, OGod!” he 
murmured, as the delicious morning sunshine bathed his 
face, “and how we mar and destroy its beauties with our 
wretched scheming and plans ! Ah ! I must not feel like 
this,” he muttered, as a restful hopefulness, born of the 
early day, seemed to be infusing itself throughout his 
being, 

i He had no occasion to check the feeling of content and 
rest, for he had not gone a dozen yards before the whole 
force of his position flashed upon him. He felt that he was 
a plotter against the prosperity of the town —that scores of 
the people whose homes he was passing were beginning 
the day in happy ignorance that perhaps the savings of a 
life were in jeopardy. Ought he not to warn them at 
once, and bid them save what they could out of the fire? 

For his conscience smote him, asking him how he, a 
clergyman, the preacher of truth, and justice, and inno- 
cence, could be going to temporize, almost to join in, the 
fraud by what he was about to do. 

“ How can I meet my people after this?” he asked him- 
self; and his face grew careworn and lined. The old 
reproach against him had passed away. No one. could 
have called him too young and boyish-looking now. 

“ Morning, sir,” cried a harsh voice. 

Bayle started, and flushed like some guilty creature, for 
he had come suddenly upon old Gemp, as he supposed, 
though the reverse was really the case. 

“Going for a walk, sir?” said Gemp, pointing at him, 
and scanning his face searchingly. 

“ Yes, Mr. Gemp. Fine morning, is it not?” 

Gemp stood shaving himself with one finger as the 
curate passed on, and made a curious rasping noise as the 
rough finger passed over the stubble. Then he shook his 
head and began to follow Bayle slowly and at a long dis- 
tance. 

“ I felt as if that man could read my very thoughts,” 
said Bayle, as he went along the street past the bank, and 
out into the north road that led toward the mill. 

He shuddered as he passed the bank, and pictured to 
himself what would happen if the doors were closed, and 
an excited crowd of depositors were hungering for their 
money. 

“ It must be stopped at any cost,” he muttered ; and once 
more the sweet, sad face of Millicent seemed to be looking 
into his for help. 

“ I ought to have suspected him before,” he continued; 
“but how could I, when even Sir Gordon could see no 
wrong? Ha! Yes. Perhaps Thickens is mistaken after 
all. It may be, as he said, only suspicion.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


m 


His heart seemed like lead, though, the next moment, as 
he neared the clerk’s house. Thickens was too just, too 
careful a man to have been wrong. 

He stopped, and rapped with his knuckles at the door 
directly after, to find it opened by Thickens himself, and 
as the clerk drew back he passed in, ignorant of the fact 
that Gemp was shaving himself with his rough forefinger 
a hundred yards away, and saying to himself, “Which 
is it? Thickens going to marry skinny Heathery on the 
sly; or something wrong? It sha’n’t be long before I 
know.” 

The brightness of the morning seemed to be shut out as 
Thickens closed the door and followed his visitor into the 
sitting-room. 

“Well, Mr. Bayle,”he said, for the curate was silent. 
“You’ve come to say something particular.” 

“Yes,” said Bayle, firmly. “Thickens, this exposure 
would be too horrible. It must not take place. ” 

“Ah!” said Thickens, irihis quiet, grave way; “you’re 
the Hallams’ friend.” 

‘ ‘ I hope I am the friend of every one in this town. ’ ’ 

“ And you advise me to keep this quiet and let your 
friends be robbed?” 

“ Silence, man! How dare you speak to me like that?” 
cried Bayle, furiously, and he took a step in advance. 
“ No, no,” he cried, checking himself and holding out his 
hand; “ we must be calm and sensible over this, Thickens. 
There must be no temper. Now listen. You remember 
what I said you must do last night.” 

“ Yes; and I’m going directly after breakfast to Sir Gor- 
don.” 

“No; I retract mv words. You must not go.” 

‘ ‘ And the people who have been robbed V ’ 

“Wait a few moments. Thickens,” cried Bayle, flush- 
ing, as he saw that his hand was not taken. “ Hear me 
out. You— yes, surely, you have some respect for Mrs. 
Hallam— some love for her sweet child.” 

Thickens nodded. 

“Think, then, man, of the horrible disgrace — the ruin 
that would follow your disclosures. ” 

“Yes; it is very horrid, sir, but I must do my duty. 
You owned to it last night.” 

“Yes, man, yes; but surely there are times when we 
may try and avert some of the horrors that would fall 
upon the heads of the innocent and true.” 

“ That doesn’t sound like what a parson ought so say,” 
said Thickens, dryly. 

Bayle flushed apgrily again, but he kept down his 
wrath. 


124 


THIS MAN'S WIFE, 


“James Thickens,” he said, coldly, “j^ou mistake me.” 

“No,” said Thickens, “you spoke out like a man last 
night. This morning, sir, you speak like Robert Hallam’s 
friend.” 

“Yes; as his friend — as the friend of his wife; as one 
who loves his child. Now listen. Thickens. To what 
amount do you suppose Hallam is a defaulter?” 

“ How can I tell, sir? It is impossible to say. It can’t 
be hushed up.” 

“It must, it shall be, hushed up,” said Bayle, sternly- 
“Now, look here; I insist upon your keeping what you 



‘ ‘ I did not tell you, but Sir Gordon suspects something 
to be wrong.” 

“ Sir Gordon does, sir?” 

“ Yes; he consulted me about the matter.” 

“ Then my course is easy,” said Thickens, brightening. 

“ Not so easy, perhaps, as you think, ” said Bayle, coldly. 
“You must be silent till I have seen Hallam.” 

“Seen him, sir? Why, it’s giving him warning to es- 
cape.” 

‘ ‘ Seen him and Sir Gordon, James Thickens. It would be 
a terrible scandal for Dixon’s bank if it were known, and 
utter ruin and disgrace for Hallam.” 

“Yes,” said Thickens, “and he deserves it.” 

“We must not talk about our deserts. Thickens,” said 
Bayle, gravely. “ Now listen to me. I find I can realize 
in very few days the sum of twenty-four thousand 
pounds.” 

Thickens’ eyes dilated. 

“ Whatever amount of that is needed, even to the whole, 
I am going to place in Robert Hallam’s hands to clear him- 
self and redeem these securities, and then he must leave 
the town quietly, and in good repute.” 

“ III good repute?” 

“ For his wife’s sake, sir. Do you understand?” 

“No,” said Thickens, quietly. “No man could under- 
stand such a sacrifice as that. You mean to say that you 
are going to give up your fortune — all you have — to save 
that gambling scoundrel from what he deserves?” 

“Yes.” 

“But, Mr. Bayle ” 

“ Silence! I have made my plans, sir. Now, Mr. Thick- 
ens, you see that I am not going to defraud the customers 
of the bank, but to replace their deeds.” 

“ God bless you, sir 1 I beg your pardon humbly. I’m 
a poor ignorant brute, with no head for anything but 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


125 


figures and— my fish. And just now I wouldn’t take your 
hand. Mr. Bayle, sir, will you forgive me?” 

“Forgive! I honor you, Thickens, as a sterling, honest 
man — shake hands. There, now, j^ou know my plans.” 

” Oh, yes, sir, I understand you I” cried Thickens; “ but 
you must not do that, sir. You must not, indeed !” 

” I can do as I please with my own. Thickens. Save for 
my charities, money is of little use to me. There, now, I 
must go. I shall see Hallam as soon as he is at the bank. 
I will not go to his house, for nothing must be done to ex- 
cite suspicion. You will help me?” 

Thickens hesitated. 

‘‘ I ask it for Mrs. Hallam’ssake — for the sake of Dr. and 
Mrs. Luttrell. Come, you will help me in this. You came 
to me for my advice last night. I have changed it during 
the past few hours. There, I have you on my side?” 

“ Yes, sir; but you must hold me free with Sir Gordon. 
Bah! no; I’ll take my chance, sir. Yes; I’ll help you as 
you wish.” 

“ I trust you, Thickens,” said Bayle, quietly. 

“And you are determined, sir— your fortune— all you 
have?” 

“ I am determined. I shall see you at the bank about 
ten.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

BROUGHT TO BOOK. 

“ He— he— he — he— he! how cunning they do think 
themselves! What jolly owd orstridges they are!” 
chuckled old Gemp, as he saw Bayle leave the clerk’s house 
and return home to his breakfast. Dear me ! dear me ! to 
think of James Thickens marrying that old maid! Ah 
well! Of course, he didn’t go to her house for nothing!” 

He was in the street again about ten, when the curate 
came out, and, as soon as he saw him, Gemp doubled down 
one of the side lanes to get round to the church, and secure 
a good place. 

“They won’t know in the town till it’s over,” he chuck- 
led. “Sly trick! He — he— he!” 

The old fellow hurried round into the churchyard, get- 
ting before Bayle, as he thought, and posting himself 
where he could meet the curate coming in at the gate, and 
give him a look which should mean, “Ah! you can’t get 
over me!” 

An observer would have found old Gem p’s countenance 
a study, as he stood there, waiting for Bayle to come, and 
meaning afterward to stay and see Thickens and Miss 
Heathery come in. But from where he stood he could see 


126 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


the bank, and, to his surprise, he saw James Thickens come 
out on the step, and directly after the curate went up to 
him, and they entered the place together. 

Gemp’s countenance lengthened, and he began shaving 
himself directly, his eyes falling upon one of the molder- 
ing old tombstones, upon which he involuntarily read; 

“Lay not up for yourselves treasure- ” The rest had 

moldered away. 

“ Where thieves break through and steal,” cried Gemp, 
whose jaw dropped. “ They’re a-consulting— parson and 
Sir Gordon— parson and Thickens twiced, parson at the 
bank— Hallam up to his eyes in debt!” 

He reeled, so strong was his emotion, but he recovered 
himself directly. 

“My deeds! my money!” he gasped, “my ” 

He could uttei* no more, for a strange giddiness assailed 
him, and, after clutching for a moment in the air, he fell 
down in a fit. 

* * * * * * * 

“Yes, he’s in his room, sir,” said Thickens, meeting 
Bayle at the bank door. “ I’ll tell him you are here.” 

Hallam required no telling. He had seen Bayle come 
up, and he appeared at the door of his room, so calm and 
cool that Bayle felt a moment’s hesitation. 

“ Want to see me, Bayle? Business? Come in.” 

The door closed behind the curate, and James Thickens 
screwed his face into wrinkles, and buttoned his coat up 
to the last button, as he seated himself upon his stool. 

“Well, what can I do for you, Bayle?” said Hallam, 
seating himself at his table, after placing a chair for his 
visitor, which was not taken. 

Bayle did not answer, but stood gazing down at the 
smooth, handsome-looking man, with his artificial smile 
and easy manner ; and it seemed as if the events of the 
past few years — since became, so young and inexperienced, 
to the town— were flitting by him. 

“ A little money? a little accommodation?” said Hallam, 
as his visitor did not speak. 

Could Thickens be wrong? No; impossible. Too many 
little things, that had seemed unimportant before, now 
grew to a vast significance, and Bayle cast aside his hesi- 
tancy, and taking a step forward, laid his hand upon the 
table. 

“Robert Hallam!” he said, in a low, deep voice, full of 
emotion, “are you aware of your position— how you 
stand?” 

The manager started slightly, but the spasm passed in a 
moment, and he said, calmly, with a smile; 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


127 


“My position? How I stand? I do not comprehend 
you! My dear Bayle, what do you mean?” 

The curate gazed in his eyes, a calm, firm, judicial look 
in his countenance; but Hallam did not flinch. And again 
the idea flashed across the visitor’s mind, “ Suppose 
Thickens should be wrong?” 

Again, though, he cast off his hesitation, and spoke out 
firmly. 

“Let me be plain with you, Eobert Hallam, and show 
you the precipice upon whose edge you stand.” 

“Good heavens, Mr. Bayle! are you ill?” said Hallam, 
in the coolest manner. 

“ Yes; sick at heart, to find of what treachery to em- 
ployers, to wife and child, a man like you can be guilty. 
Hallam, your great sin is discovered ! What have you to 
say?” 

“Say?” cried Hallam, laughing scornfully, “say, in 
words that you use so often — ‘ Who made you a ruler and 
a judge?’ What do you mean?” 

“ I came neither as a ruler nor judge, but as the friend 
of your wife and child. There — as your friend. Man, it 
is of no use to dissimulate!” 

“Dissimulate, sir?” 

“Am I to be plainer?” cried Bayle. angrily, “and tell 
you that but for my interposition James Thickens would at 
this moment be with Sir Gordon and Mr. Dixon, exposing 
your rascality?” 

“ My rascality? How dare ” 

“ Dare?” cried Bayle, sternly. “Cast off this contempt- 
ible mask, and be frank ! Do I not tell you I come as a 
friend?” 

“Then explain yourself.” 

“ I will,” said Bayle; and for a few minutes there was a 
silence almost appalling. The clock upon the mantel- 
piece ticked loudly ; the stool upon which James Thickens 
sat in the outer office gave a loud scroop, and a large blue- 
bottle fly shut in the room beat itself heavily against the 
panes in its efforts to escape. 

Bayle was alternately flushed and pale. Hallam, per- 
fectly calm, paler than usual; but beyond seeming hurt 
and annoyed, there was nothing to indicate the truth of 
the terrible charge being brought against him. 

“Well, sir,” he said at last, “ why do you not speak?” 

Bayle gazed at him wonderingly, for all thought of his 
innocence had passed away. 

“ I will speak, Hallam,” he said. “Tell me the amount 
for which the deeds you have abstracted from that safe 
are pledged.” 

‘ ‘ The deeds I have abstracted from that safe?” said Hal'* 


128 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


lam, rising slowly, and standing at his full height, with 
his head thrown back. 

“Yes; and in whose place you have installed forgeries, 
dummies — imitations, if you will.” 

That blow was too straight — too heavy to be resisted. 
Hallam dropped back in his chair; and James Thickens, at 
his desk behind the bank counter, heard the shock, and 
then fidgeted in his seat, and rubbed his right ear, as he 
heard Hallam speak of him in a low voice, and say, 
hoarsely : 

“ Thickens, then, has told you this?” 

“ Yes,” said Bayle, in a lower tone. “He came to me 
for advice, and I bade him do his duty.” 

“ Hah!” said Hallam, and his eyes wandered about the 
room. 

“ This morning I begged him to wait.” 

“ Hah!” ejaculated Hallam again, and now there was a 
sharp twitching about his closely shaven lips. “ And you 
said that you came as our friend?” 

“I did.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

Bayle waited for a few moments, and then said, slowly, 
“ If you will redeem those deeds with which you have been 
intrusted, and go from here, and commence a new career 
of honesty, I will, for your wife and child’s sake, find the 
necessary money.” 

“ You will? You will do this, Bayle?” cried Hallam, ex- 
tending his hands, which were not taken. 

“ I have told you I will,” said Bayle, coldly. 

“But— the amount?” 

“ How many thousands are they pledged for? — to some 
bank, of course?” 

“ It was to cover an unfortunate speculation. I ” 

“ I do not ask you for explanations,” said Bayle, coldly. 
“ What amount will clear your defalcations?” 

“ Twenty to twenty -one thousand,” said Hallam, watch- 
ing the effect of his words. 

“I will find the money within a week,” said Bayle. 

“ Then all will be kept quiet?” 

“ Sir Gordon must be told all.” 

“ No, no; there is no need of that. The affairs will be 
put straight, and matters can go on as before. It was an 
accident; I could not help it. Stop, man, what are you 
going to do?” 

‘ ‘ Call in Mr. Thickens, ’ ’ said Bayle. 

“ To expose and degrade me in his eyes?” 

Bayle turned upon him with a contemptous look. 

“ I expose you? Why, man but for me you would have 
been in the hands of the officers by now. Mr, Thickens V ’ 


129 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

Thickens got slowly down from his stool and entered 
the manager’s room, where Hallam met his eye with a look 
that made the clerk think of what would have been bis 
chances of life had opportunity served for him to be 
silenced forever. 

“ I have promised Mr. Hallam to find twenty-one thou- 
sand pounds within a week— that is to say, the bank 
warrants for that amount, to enable him to redeem the 
securities he has pledged.” 

“ And under these circumstances, Mr. Thickens, there is 
no need for this trouble to be exposed.” 

“ Not to the public, perhaps,” said Thickens, slowly, 
“ but Sir Gordon and Mr. Dixon must know.” 

” No, no,” cried Hallam, “ there is no need. Don’t you 
see, man, that the money will be made right.” 

” No, sir, I only see one thing ” said Thickens, sturdily, 
” and that is that I have my duty to do.” 

But you will ruin me. Thickens.” 

” You have ruined yourself, Mr. Hallam: I’ve waited too 
long.” 

“Stop, Mr. Thickens,” said Bay le. “I pay this heavy 
sum of money to save Mr. Hallam from utter ruin. The 
bank will be the gainer by twenty thousand pounds.” 

•‘Twenty-one thousand you offered, sir,” said Thickens. 

‘ ‘ Exactly. More if it is needed. If you expose this 
terrible affair to Sir Gordon and Mr. Dixon they may feel 
it their duty to hand Mr. Hallam over to the hands of 
justice. He must be saved from that.” 

“ What can I do, sir? There, then,” said Thickens, 
“ since you put it so I will give way, but only on one con- 
dition.” 

“ And what is that?” 

“ Mr. Hallam must go away from the bank and leave all 
keys with me and Mr. Trampleasure. ” 

” But what excuse am I to make?” said Hallam, huskily. 

“ I don’t think you want teaching how to stop at home 
for a few days, Mr. Hallam,” said Thickens, dryly: “you 
can be ill for a little while, it will not be the first time.” 

“I will agree to anything,” said Hallam, excitedly, 

‘ ‘ only save me from that other horror. Bayle, for our old 
friendship's sake, for the sake of my poor wife and child, 
save me from that.” 

“ Am I not fighting to save you for their sake?” said 
Bayle, bitterly. “ Do you suppose that I am as conscience- 
less as yourself, and that I do not feel how despicable, how 
dishonest, a part I am playing in hindering James Thickens 
from exposing your rascality ? There, enough of this ; let 
us bring this terribly painful meeting, with its miserable 
subterfuges, to an end. Thickens is right ; you must leave 


130 


THIS MAN'S WIFE, 


this building at once, and not enter it again. He must 
take all in charge until your successor is found.” 

V As you will,” said Haham, humbly. “There are the 
keys, Thickens, and I am really ill. When Mr. Bayle 
brings the money I will help in every way I can. There.” 

Bayle hesitated a moment, and then mastered his dis- 
like. ‘ ‘ Come, ’ ’ he said to Hallam, ‘ ‘ there must be no 
whisper of this trouble in the town, I will walk down 
with you to your house. ’ ’ 

“ As my jailer?” said Hallam, with a sneer. 

‘ ‘ As another proof of what I am ready to sacrifice to 
save you, ’ ’ said Bayle. He walked with him as far as his 
door. 

“Stop a moment,” said Hallam, in a whisper. “You 
will do this for me, Bayle?” 

“ I have told you I would,” replied the curate, coldly. 

“And at once?” 

“ At once.” 

“You will have to bring me the money. No, you must 
go up to town with me, and we can redeem the papers. It 
will be better so.” 

“As you will,” said Bayle. “I have told you that I 
will help you, will put myself at your service. I will let 
you know when I can be ready. Rest assured I shall waste 
no time in removing as much of this shadow as I can from 
above their heads. ” 

He met Hallam’ s eyes as he spoke, just as the latter had 
been furtively measuring, as it were, his height and 
strength, and then they parted. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A FEW WORDS ON LOVE. 

“What has papa been doing in the lumber-room, 
mamma?” asked Julia, that same evening. 

“ Examining some of the old furniture there, my dear,” 
said Millicent, looking up with a smile. ‘ ‘ I think he is 
going to have it turned into a play-room for you. ’ ’ 

“Oh!” said Julia, indifferently; and she turned her 
thoughtful little face away, while her mother rose with 
the careworn look that so often sat there, giving place to 
the happy maternal smile that came whenever she was 
alone with her child. _ 

“Why, Julia, darling, you seem so quiet and dull to- 
night. Your little head is hot. You are not unwell, 
dear?” 

She knelt down beside the child, and drew the soft little 
head to her shoulder, and laid her cheek to the burning 
forehead. 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


131 


“That is nice,” said the child, with a sigh of content. 
“Oh, mamma, it does do me so much good. My head 
doesn’ t ache now. ’ ’ 

“ And did it ache before?” 

“ Yes, a little,” said the child, thoughtfully, and turning 
up her face, she kissed the sweet countenance that was by 
her side again and again. “ I do love you so, mamma.” 

“ Why, of course you do, my dear.” 

“ I don’t think I love papa.” 

“ Julie 1” cried Millicent, starting from her as if she had 
been stung. “Oh, my child, my child,” she continued, 
with passionate energy, “if you only knew how that hurts 
me. My darling, you do— you do love him more than you 
love me. ’ ’ 

Julia shook her head, and gazed back full in her mother’s 
eyes, as Millicent held her back at arm’s-length, and then 
caught her to her breast, sobbing wildly. 

“ I do try to love him, mamma,” said the child, speak- 
ing quickly, in a half-frightened tone; “ but when I put my 
arms round his neck and kiss him he pushes me away. I 
don’t think he loves me; he seems so cross with me. But 
if it makes you cry, I am going to try and love him ever so 
much. There.” 

She kissed her mother with all a child’s effusion, and 
nestled close to her. 

“ He does love you, my darling,” said Millicent, holding 
the child tightly to her, “ as dearly as he loves me, and 
I’m going to tell you why papa looks so serious some- 
times. It is because he has so many business cares and 
troubles.” 

“ But why does papa have so many business cares and 
troubles?” said the child, throwing back her head, and be- 
ginning to toy with her mother’s beautiful hair. 

“ Because he has to think about making money, and sav- 
ing, so as to make us independent, my darling. It is be- 
cause he loves us so that he works so hard and is so 
serious. ' ’ 

“I wish he would not,” said the child. “I wish he 
would love me ever so instead, as Mr. Bayle does. Mamma, 
why has not Mr. Bayle been here to-day?” 

“ I don’t know, my child; he has been away, perhaps.” 

“But he did come to the door with papa, and then did 
not come in. ’ ’ 

“ Maybe he is busy, my dear.” 

“Oh, I do wish people would not be busy,” said the 
child, pettishly; “it makes them so disagreeable. Thibs 
is always being busy, and then, oh! she is so cross.” 

“Why, Julie, you want people always to be laughing 
and playing with you.” 


133 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


“No, no, mamma, I like to work sometimes — with Mr. 
Bayle, and learn, and so I do like the lessons I learn with 
you. You never look cross at me, and Mr. Bayle never 
does.” 

“But, my darling, the world could not go on if people 
were never serious. Why, the sun does not always shine, 
there are clouds over it sometimes. ’ ’ 

“But it’s always shining behind the clouds, Mr. Bayle 
says.” 

“ And so is papa’s love for his darling shining behind the 
clouds — the serious looks that come upon his face,” cried 
Millicent. “There, you must remember that.” 

“Yes,” said the child, nodding, and drawing two clus- 
ters of curls away from her mother’s face to look up at it 
laughingly and then kiss her again and again. 

‘ ‘ Oh, how pretty you are, mamma ! I never saw any one 
with a face like yours.” 

“Silence, little nonsense-talker,” cried Millicent, with 
her face all happy smiles and the old look of her unmar- 
ried life coming back as she returned the child’s caresses. 

“ I never did, ” continued Julia, tracing the outlines of 
the countenance that bent over her, with one rosy finger. 
“Grandma’s is very, very nice, and I like grandpa’s face, 
even if it is very rough. Mamma!” 

‘ ‘ W ell, my darling ?’ ’ 

“Does papa love you very, very much?” 

“Very, very much, my darling,” said her mother, 
proudly. 

“ And do you love him very, very much?’ 

“Heaven only knows how dearly,” said Millicent, in a 
deep, low voice that came from her heart. 

“ But does papa know, too?” 

“Why, of course, mj^ darling. 

“ I wish he would not say such cross things to you some- 
times.” 

“ Yes, we both wish he had not so much trouble. W^hy, 
what a little babbler it is to-night 1 Have you any more 
questions to ask before we go up and fetch papa down and 
play to him?” 

“ Don’t go yet,” cried the child. “I like to talk to you 
this way, it’s so nice. I say, mamma, do people get mar- 
ried because they love one another?” 

“Hush, hush! what next?” said Millicent, smiling, as 
she laid her hand upon the child’s lips. “Of course, of 
course. ’ ’ 

Julie caught the hand in hers, kissed it, and held it fast. 

“ Why does not Mr. Bayle love some one?” 

A curious, fixed look came over Millicent’s face, and she 
gazed down at her child in a half -frightened way. 


" THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


133 


“ He will some day,” she said at last. 

‘‘No, he won’t,” said the child, shaking her head and 
looking very wise. 

“Why, what nonsense is this, Julie?” 

‘‘I asked him one day when we were sitting out in the 
woods, and he looked at me almost like papa does, and 
then I do believe he was going to cry, but he didn’t; he 
jumped up and laughed, and called me a little chatterer, 
and made me run till I was out of breath. But I asked 
him, though.” 

‘‘You asked him?” 

“ Yes; I asked him if he would marry a beautiful lady 
some day, as beautiful as you are, and he took me in his 
arms and kissed me, and said that he never should, because 
he had got a little girl to love — he meant me. And oh, 
here’s papa ; let’s tell him. No, I don’t think I will. I don’t 
think he likes Mr. Bayle.” 

Millicent rose from her knees as Hallam entered the 
room, looking haggard and frowning. He glanced from 
one to the other, and then caught sight of himself in the 
glass, and saw that there was a patch as of lime or mortar 
upon his coat. 

He brushed it off quickly, being always scrupulously 
particular about his clothes, and then came toward 
them. 

“ Send that child away,” he said, harshly. ” I want to 
be quiet.” 

Millicent bent down smiling over the child, and kissed 
her. 

“ Go to Thisbe, now, my darling,” she whispered; ‘‘ but 
say good-night first to papa, and then you will not have to 
come to him again. Perhaps he may be out.” 

The child’s face became grave with a gravity beyond its 
years. It was the mother’s young face repeated, with 
Hallam ’s dark hair and eyes. 

She advanced to him, timidly putting out her hand, and 
bending forward with that sweetly innocent look of a child 
ready so trustingly to give itself into your arms as it asks 
for a caress. 

“ Good-night, papa dear,” she cried, in her little silvery 
voice. 

“Good-night, Julie, good-night,” he said, abruptly; and 
he just patted her head and was turning away, when he 
caught sight of the disappointed, troubled look coming over 
her countenance, paused half wonderingly, and then bent 
down and extended his hands to her. 

There was a quick hysteric cry, a passionate sob or two, 
and the child bounded into his arms, flung her arms round 


184 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


his neck, and kissed him, his lips, his cheeks, his eyes, 
again and again, in a quick, excited manner. 

Hallam’s countenance wore a loolc of half- contemptuous 
doubt for a moment, as he glanced at his wife, and then the 
good that was in him mastered the ill. His face flushed, a 
spasm twitched it, and clasping his child to his breast, he 
held her there for a few moments, then kissed her tenderly, 
and set her down, her hair tumbled, her eyes wet, but her 
sweet countenance irradiated with joy, as, clapping her 
hands, she cried out : 

‘ ‘ Papa loves— he loves me, he loves me ! I am so happy 
now.” 

Then, half mad with childish joy, she turned, kissed her 
hands to both, and bounded out of the room. 


CHAPTER X. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

There was a momentary silence, and then, as the door 
closed, Millicent laid her hands upon her husband’s shoul- 
ders, and gazed tenderly in his face. 

“ Robert, my own !” she whispered. 

No more; her eyes bespoke the mother’s joy at this 
breaking down of the ice between father and daughter. 
Then a look of surprise and pain came into those loving 
eyes, for Hallam repulsed her rudely. 

“ It is your doing, yours, and that cursed parson’s work. 
The child has been taught to hate me. Curse him ! he has 
been my enemy from the very first.” 

“Robert — husband! Oh, take back those words!” cried 
Millicent, throwing herself upon his breast. “ You can- 
not mean it. You know I love you too well for that. How 
could you say it!” 

She clung to him for a few moments, gazing wildly in 
his face, and then she seemed to read it plainly. 

“ No, no, don’t speak,” she cried, tenderly. “ I can see 
it all. You are in some great trouble, dear, or you would 
not have spoken like that. Robert, husband, I am 
your own wife; I have never pressed you for your confi- 
dence in all these money troubles you have borne ; but now 
that something very grave has happened, let me share the 
load. ’ ’ 

She pressed him back gently to a chair, and, overcome 
by her flood of love, he yielded and sunk slowly back into 
the seat. The next instant she was at his knees, holding 
his hands to her throbbing breast. 

“ No, I don’t mean what I said,” he muttered, with 
some show of tenderness; and a loving smile dawned upon 
Millicent’s careworn face* 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


135 


“ Don’t speak of that,” she said. ” It was only born of 
the trouble you are in. Let me help you, dear. Let me 
share your sorrow with you. If only with my sympathy 
there may be some comfort.” 

He did not answer, but sat gazing straight before him. 

” Tell me, dear. It is some money trouble — some specu- 
lation has failed?” 

He nodded. 

“Then why not set all those ambitious thoughts aside, 
dear husband?” she said, nestling to him. “Give up 
everything, and let us begin again. With the love of my 
husband and my child, what have I to wish for? Robert, 
we love you so dearly. You, and not the money you can 
make, are all the world to us.” 

He looked at her suspiciously, for there was not room in 
his narrow mind for full faith in so much devotion. It 
was more than he could understand, but his manner was 
softer than it had been of late as he said, “ You do not 
understand such things.” 

“Then teach me,” she said, smiling. “ I will be so apt 
a pupil. I shall be working to free my husband from the 
toils and troubles in which he is insnared.” 

He shook his head. 

“What, still keeping me out of your heart, Rob?” she 
whispered, with her eyes beaming love and devotion. 
Then, half-pl ay fully, and with a tremor in her voice, 

‘ ‘ Robert, my own brave lion among men, refuse the aid of 
the weak mouse who would gnaw the net?” 

“ Bah! you talk like a child,” he cried, contemptuously. 
“Net, indeed!” and in his insensate rage he piled his 
hatred upon the man who had stepped in to save him. 
“ But for that cursed fellow, Bayle, this would not have 
happened.” 

“Robert, darling, you mistake him. You do not know 
his heart. How true he is ! If he has gone against you in 
some business matter, it is because he is conscientious and 
believes you wrong.” 

“ And you side with him, and believe me wrong?” 

“I?” she cried, proudly. “You are my husband, and 
whatever may be your trouble, I stand with you against 
the world.” 

“ Brave girl!” he cried, warmly; “now you speak like a 
true woman. I will trust you, and you shall help me. 1 
did not think you had it in you, Milly. That’s better.’' 

“ Then you will trust me?” 

“ Yes,” he said, raising one hand to his face and begin- 
ning nervously to bite his nails. ‘ ‘ I will trust you ; per- 
haps you can help me out of this cursed trap.” 

“ YeSj I will,” she cried. “I feel that I can* Oh, 


136 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


Robert, let it be always thus in the future. Treat me as 
your partner, your inferior in brain power, but still your 
helpmate. I will toil so hard to make myself worthy of 
my husband! Now tell me everything. Stop! I know,” 
she cried; ‘ ‘ it is something connected with the visits of 
that Mr. Crellock, that man you helped in his difficulties 
years ago.” 

” I helped? Who told you that?” 

She smiled. 

‘‘Ah! these things are so talked of. Mrs. Pinet told 
Miss Heathery, and she came and told me. I felt so proud 
of you, dear, for your unselfish behavior toward this man. 
Do you suppose I forget his coming on our wedding-day, 
and how troubled you were till you had sent him away by 
the coach?” 

‘‘You said nothing.” 

‘‘Said nothing! Was I ever one to pry into my hus- 
band’s business matters? I said to myself that I would 
wait till he thought me old enough in years, clever enough 
in wisdom, to be trusted. And now, after this long proba- 
tion, you will trust me, love?” 

He nodded. 

‘‘And your troubles shall grow less by being shared. 
Now tell me I am right about it. Your worry now is due 
to this Mr. Crellock?” 

‘‘ Yes,” he said, in a low voice. 

‘ ‘ I knew it, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ You have always been troubled 
when he came down, and when you went up to town. I 
knew as well as if you had told me that you had seen him 
when you went up. There was always the same harassed, 
careworn look in your eyes; and Robert, darling, if you 
had known how it has made me suffer, you would have 
come to me for consolation, if not for help. ’ ’ 

‘‘Ah! yes, perhaps.” 

‘‘Now go on,” she said, firmly, and, rising from her 
place by his knees, she took a chair and drew it near him. 

‘‘ There,” she said, smiling, ‘‘ you shall see how business- 
like I will be.” 

He sat with his brow knit for a few minutes, and then 
drew a long breath. 

‘‘ You are right,” he said. ‘‘ Stephen Crellock is mixed 
up with it. You shall know all. And mind this, whatever 
people may say ” 

‘‘ Whatever people may say!” she exclaimed, contemptu- 
ously. 

‘‘ I ana innocent; my hands are clean.” 

‘‘As if I needed telling that,” she said, with a proud 
smile. ‘‘Now I am waiting; tell me all.” 

“Oh, there is little to tell,” he said, quickly. ‘‘That 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 187 

feJlow Crellock, by his plausible baits, has led me into all 
kinds of speculations. ’ ’ 

“I thought so,” she said to herself. 

“ I failed in one, and then he tempted me to try an- 
other to cover my loss; and so it went on and on till ” 

“Till what?” she said, with her eyes dilating ; and a chill 
feeling of horror began to creep to her heart. 

“Till the losses were so great that large sums of money 
were necessary, and ” 

“ Eobert!” 

“ Don’t look at me in that way, Milly,” he said, with a 
half-laugh; “you are not going to begin by distrusting 
me?” 

“No, no,” she panted. 

“Well, till large sums were necessary, and the scoundrel 
literally forced me to pledge some of the deeds and things 
held by the bank.” 

She felt the evil increasing; but she forced it away with 
the warm glow of her love. 

“I’ve been worried to death,” he continued, “to put 
these things straight, and it is this that has kept me so 
poor.” 

“Yes, I see,” she cried. “Oh, Eobert, how you must 
have suffered !” 

“Ah! yes! I have,” he s^id; “but never mind that. 
Well, I was getting things straight as fast as I could; and 
all would have been right again had not Bayle and his 
miserable jackal. Thickens, scented out the trouble, and 
they have seized me by the throat.” 

“But, Eobert, why not clear yourself? Why not go to 
Sir Gordon? He would help you.” 

“ Sir Gordon does not like me. But there, I have a few 
days to turn myself around in, and then all will come 
right; but if ” 

He stopped, and looked rather curiously. 

“ Yes?” she said, laying her hand in his. 

“ If my enemies should triumph. If Bayle ” 

“If Mr. Bayle ” 

“ Silence!” he said. “ I have told you that this man is 
my cruel enemy. He has never forgiven me for robbing 
him of you.” 

“You did not rob him,” she said, tenderly. “But are 
you not mistaken in Mr. Bayle?” 

“ You are, in your sweet, womanly innocence and trust- 
fulness. I tell you he is my enemy, and trying to hound 
me down.” 

“ Let me speak to him.” 

“I forbid it,” he cried, fiercely. “Choose your part. 


13S 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


Are you with me, or the men whom I know to be my 
enemies? Will you stand by me whatever happens?” 

“You know,” she said, with a trustful smile in her 
eyes. 

“ That’s my brave wife.” he said. “ This is better. If 
my enemies do get the better of me — if, for Crellock’s 
faults, charges are brought against me--if I am by neces- 
sity forced to yield, and think it better to go right away 
from here for a time — suddenly — will you come?” 

“And leave my mother and father?” 

“Are not a husband’s claims stronger? Tell me, will 
you go with me?”’ 

“To the world’s end, Robert,” she cried, rising and 
throwing her arms about his neck. “ I am even glad that 
this trouble has come. ’ ’ 

“Glad!” 

“Yes, for it has taught you at last the strength of your 
wife’s love.” 

He drew her to his heart and kissed her, and there she 
clung for a time. 

“Now listen,” he said, putting her from him. “We 
must be business-like.” 

“Yes,” she said, firmly. 

“ The old people must not have the least suspicion that 
we have any idea of leaving.” 

“ Might I not bid them good-bye?” 

“No. That is, if we left. We may not have to go. If 
we do, it must be suddenly.” 

“ And in the meantime?” 

“ You must wait.” 

Just then the door opened, and Thisbe appeared. 

“There’s a gentleman to see you, sir — that Mr. Crel- 
lock.” 

“ Show him in my study, and I’ll come.” 

Thisbe disappeared, and Millicent laid her hand upon her 
husband’s arm. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, quietly. “ I know how to 
deal with him now. Only trust me, and all shall be well.” 

“ I do trust you,” said Millicent; and she sat there with a 
face like marble, listening to her husband’s step across the 
hall, and then sat patiently for hours, during which time 
the bell had been rung for the spirit-stand and hot water, 
while the fragrant fumes of tobacco stole into the room. 

At last there were voices and steps in the hall ; the front 
door was opened and closed, and as Millicent Hallam 
awoke to the fact that she had not been up to see her child 
since she went to bed, and that it was nearly midnight, 
Hallam entered the room, looking more cheerful, and 
crossing to her he took her in his arms. 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


139 


“Things are looking brighter,” he said. “We have 
only to wait. Now, mind this — don’t ask questions — it is 
better that I should not go to the bank for a few days. I 
am unwell.” 

Millicent looked at him hard. Certainly his eyes were 
sunken, and for answer, as she told herself that he must 
have suffered much, she bowed her head. 


CHAPTER XI. 

GETTING NEAR THE EDGE. 

“ Quite out of the question,” said James Thickens. 

“ But what is there to fear?” 

“I don’t know that there is anything to fear,” said 
Thickens, dryly. “ What I know is this, and I’ve thought 
it over. You are not going up to town with him, but by 
yourself, to get this money — if you still mean it.’ ’ 

“ If I still mean it! There, go on.” 

“Well, you will go up, and sign what you have to sign, 
get this money in notes, not warrants, and bring it down 
yourself.” 

“But Hallam will think it so strange that I mistrust 
him.” 

“Of course he will. So you do; so do I. And after 
thinking this matter over, I am going to have that money 
deposited here, and I am going to redeem the bonds and 
deeds myself, getting all infoi’mation from Hallam.” 

” But this will be a hard and rather public proceeding.” 

“ I don’t know about hard, and as to public, no one will 
know about it but we three, for old Gemp will not smell it 
out. He is down with the effects of a bad seizure, and not 
likely to leave his bed for days.” 

“But, Thickens ” 

“ Mr. Bayle, I am more of a business man than you, so 
trust me. You are making sacrifice enough, and aTe not 
called upon to study the feelings of one of the greatest 
scoundrels-^ — ” 

‘‘Oh! hush! hush!” 

“ I say it again, sir— jone of the greatest scoundrels that 
ever drew breath.” 

Bayle frowned, and drew his own hard. 

“ I don't know,” he said, “that I shall care to carry this 
money — so large a sum.” 

“Nonsense, sir, a packet of notes in a pocket-book. 
These things are comparative. When I was a boy I can 
remember thinking- ninepen(;e a large amount; now I 
stand on a market-day shoveling over gold, and fingering 
over greasy notes and checks, till I don’t seem to know 
what a large sum is. You take my advice, go and get it 


140 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


without saying a word to Hallam about it; and I tell you 
what it is, sir, if it wasn’t for poor Mrs. Hallam and that 
poor child, I should be off my bargain, and go to Sir 
Gordon at once. ’ ’ 

“ 1 will go and get the money without Hallam, Thickens; 
but as I undertook to go with him, I shall write and tell 
him I have gone. ” 

“Very well, sir, very well. As you please,” said 
Thickens; “ I should not, but you are a clergyman, and 
more particular about such things than I am.” 

Bayle smiled, and shook hands, leaving Thickens looking 
after him very intently as he walked down the street. 

“ He wouldn’t dare,” said Thickens to himself, thought- 
fully. “He would not dare. I wish he had not been 
going to tell him, though. Humph! dropping in to see 
poor old Gemp because he has had a fit.” 

He paused till he had seen Bayle enter the old man’s 
house, and then went on muttering to himself. 

“I never could understand why Gemp was made; he 
never seems to have been of the least use in the world ; 
though, for the matter of that, idlers don’t seem much 
good. Hah ! If Gemp knew what I know, there’d be a 
crowd round the bank in half an hour, and they’d have 
Hallam’s house turned inside out in another quarter.” 

“I don’t like his telling Hallam about his going,” he 
mused. “ It is a large sum of money, though I made light 
of it, and the mail’s safe enough. We’ve about got by the 
old highwayman days, but I wish he hadn’t told him, all 
the same.” 

Meanwhile the curate had turned in at Gemp’s to see how 
the old fellow was getting on. 

“ Nicedly, sir, very nicedly,” said the woman in charge; 
“ he’ve had a beautiful sleep, and Dr. Luttrell says he be 
coming round to his senses fast. ’ ’ 

Poor old Gemp did not look as if he had been progressing 
nicely, but he seemed to recognize his visitor, and appeared 
to understand a few of his words. 

But not many, for the old man kept putting his hand to 
his head and looking at the door, gazing wistfully through 
the window, and then heaving a heavy sigh. 

‘ ‘ Oh, don’t you take no notice o’ that, sir, ’ ’ said the woman ; 
“ that is only his way. He’s been used to trotting about 
so much that he feels it a deal when he is laid up, poor old 
gentleman; he keeps talking about his money, too, sir. 
Ah I sir, it be strange how old folks do talk about their bit 
o’ money when they’re getting anigh-the time when they 
won’t want any of it more.” 

And so on, till the curate rose and left the cottage. 

That night he was on his way to London, after sending 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


141 


in a line to Hal lam to say that, upon second thoughts, he 
had considered it better to go. up to town alone. 

Three days passed with nothing more exciting than a 
few inquiries after Hallam’s health, the most assiduous in- 
quirer being Miss Heathery, who called again on the third 
evening. 

“ I know you think me a very silly little woman, Milli- 
cent, my dear, and I’m afraid perhaps I am; but I do like 
you, and I should like to help you now you are in trouble.” 

“I always did, and always shall, think you one of my 
best and kindest friends. Miss Heathery,” replied Milli 
cent, kissing her. 

“ Now that’s very kind of you, Millicent. It’s touch- 
ing,” said Miss Heathery, wiping her eyes. “You do 
think me, then, a very dear friend?” she said, clinging to 
Mrs. Hallam, and gazing plaintively in her face. 

“Indeed I do.” 

“ Then may I make a confidant like of you, dear?” 

“Yes, certainly,” said Millicent. 

“ But first of all, can I help you nurse Mr. Hallam, or 
take care of Julie?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, no, thank you ; Mr. Hallam is much better, and 
Julie is happiest with Thisbe.” 

“ Or Mr. Bayle,” said Miss Heathery; “ but I have not 
seen her with him lately. “Oh, I forgot, he has gone to 
London. ’ ’ 

“ Indeed!” said Millicent, starting, for she connected his 
absence with her husband’s trouble. 

“ Yes; gone two, three days; but, Millicent dear, may I 
speak to you plainly?” 

“Of course. Tell me,” said Millicent, smiling, and feel- 
ing amused as she anticipated some confidence respecting 
an engagement. 

“And you are sure you will not feel hurt?” 

“Trust me, I shall not,” said Millicent, with her old 
grave smile. • 

“Well then, my dear,” whispered the visitor, “it is 
about money matters. You know I have none in the bank 
now, because I bought a couple of houses; but I have been 
asking, and I find that I can borrow some money on the 
security, and I thought— there 1 I knew you would feel 
hurt. ’ ’ 

For Millicent’ s eyes had begun to dilate, and she drew 
back from her visitor. 

“ I only meant to say that I could not help knowing you 
—that Mr. Hallam kept you— ah ! I don’t know how to say 
it, Millicent dear, but— but if you would borrow some 
money of me, dear, it would make me so very happy.” 


142 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


The tears sprung to Millicent’s eyes as she rose and 
kissed her visitor. 

“ Thank you, dear Miss Heathery,” she cried. ‘‘I shall 
never forget this unassuming kindness, but it is impossible 
that I can take your help.” 

“ Oh dear me. I was so afraid you would say so, and 
yet it is so sad to run short. Couldn’t you really let me 
help you, my dear?” 

“No; it is impossible,” said Millicent, smiling gently. 

“ Is it quite impossible?” said Miss Heathery. 

“Yes, dear; but believe me, if I were really in great 
need I would come to you for help. ’ ’ 

“You promise me that, dear?” cried the little woman, 
rising. 

“I promise you that,” said Millicent, and her visitor 
went away overjoyed. 


CHAPTER XII. 

ROBERT HALLAM WANTS FRESH AIR. 

“That woman seemed as if she would never go,” said 
Hallam, entering the room hastily, and glancing at the 
clock. 

“ She does like to stop and chat,” replied Millicent, won- 
dering at his manner. “ What are you going to do?” 

“ I am off for a short run. I cannot bear this confine- 
ment any longer. It is dark, and no one will see me if I 
go out for a change.” 

“ Shall I go witli you?” 

“Go with me! No; not now,” he said, hastily. “I 
want a little fresh air. Don’t stop me. I shall be back 
.soon.” 

His manner seemed very strange, but Millicent said 
nothing, only followed him into the hall. 

“No, no,”" he said, hastily; “don’t do that. It is as if 
you were watching me.” 

She drew back in a pained way, and he followed her. 

“ I’m pettish and impatient, that’s all,” he said, smiling ; 
and closing the door after her, he hurriedly put on a cloak 
and traveling- cap, mufiling his face well; and then going 
softly out, and turning from the main street, he was soon 
after in the lane that led down by Thickens’ house and the 
mill. 

“At last!” said a voice from the hedge-side, just beyond 
where the last oil lamp shed a few dim rays across the 
road. “I thought you were never coming.” 

“Don’t talk. Have you everything ready?” 

“Yes, everything. It’s only a cart, but it will take you 
easily.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


143 


“And are you sure of the road?” 

“ Certain. I’ve done it twice, so as to be sure.” 

“ Good horse?” 

“ Capital. We can get over the twenty miles in three 
hours, and catch the York coach easily by twelve. It does 
not pass before then. ” 

“ Mind, Stephen, I am trusting you in this. If you fail 
me ” 

“ If I fail you ! Bah! Did I ever fail you?” 

“No, never.” 

“Then don’t talk like that. You’ve failed me pretty 
often, all the same. Going?” 

“Yes; I must get back.” 

“What’s that— the Castor coach?” 

“Yes,” said Hallam, starting. “It’s early.” 

“Don’t be longer than you can help; but, I say, have 
you plenty of money for the journey? I’ve only a guinea 
or two left.” 

“ I have enough,” said Hallam, grimly; and bidding his 
companion wait three hours, and if he did not come, then 
to go back and come the next night, Hallam turned to 
hurry back to the town. 

It was intensely dark as he approached the mill, where 
the stream was gurgling and plashing over the waste 
water-shoot. In the distance there was the oil lamp glim- 
m ering, and a light or two shone in the scattered cottages, 
but there was none at Thickens’ as Hallam passed. 

There was a space of about a hundred yards between 
Thickens’ house and the next cottage, and Hallam had 
about half traversed this when he heard a step that seemed 
familiar coming, and his doubt was put an end to by a 
voice exclaiming, “Mind! Take care!” 

Was it fate that had put this in his way? 

He asked himself this, as, like lightning, the thought 
struck him that Bayle had just come off the coach— he the 
sharer in the knowledge of his iniquity. 

A sharp struggle, and close at hand there was the bridge 
and the flowing river. It might have been an accident. 
But even then there was Thickens. What if he closed 
with him, and— disguised as he was, Bayle could never 
know. He was the bearer of that heavy sum of money. 
He intended flight that night; was it fate, he asked himself 
again, that had thrown this in his way? And as the 
thoughts flashed through his brain, they encountered 
roughly upon the path, and Hallam’ s hand touched the 
thick pocket-book in Bayle’s breast. 

It was a matter of moments. Even to Hallam it was 
like an encounter in a dream. A blind desire to possess 
himself of the money he had touched had come over him ; 


144 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


and reckless now, half mad, he seized Bayle by the throat. 
There was a furious struggle, a few inarticulate cries, a 
heavy fall, and he was kneeling upon him, and dragging 
the pocket-book from his breast. 

All, as it were, in a dream ! 

+ 4 = * * * ♦ 

Millicent Hallam stood listening at the window to her 
husband’s steps, and then pressed her hands to her burn- 
ing forehead to try and think more clearly about her posi- 
tion. It was so hard to think ill of Bayle; she could not do 
it ; and yet her husband had said he was his enemy, and 
fighting against him to destroy him. Besides, Bayle had 
not been near them for days. It was so strange that he 
should go away without telling her ! 

And so, as she stood there, the two currents of thought 
met — that which ran love and trust in her husband, and 
that which* was full of gentle, sisterly feeling for Bayle; 
and as they met there was tumult and confusion in her 
brain, till the first current proved the stronger and swept 
the latter aside, running strongly on toward the future. 

“He is my husband, and he trusts me now as I trust 
him,” she said, proudly. “ It is impossible. He could do 
no wrong.” 

She went up to the bedroom where Julia lay asleep, and 
stood watching the sweet, happy little face for some time, 
ending by kneeling down, taking one of the little hands in 
hers, and praying fervently for help, for guidance, and for 
protection in the troubled future that seemed to be sur- 
rounding her with clouds. How dense they seemed ! How 
was it all to end? Would she be called upon by her hus- 
band to leave their home and friends, and go faraway? 
Well, and if that were her fate, husband and child were all 
in all to her, and it was her duty. 

“ He trusts me now,” she said, smiling; and feeling hap- 
pier and more at rest than she had for months, with their 
petty cares and poverty and shame, she bent over and 
kissed Julia, when the child’s arms were clasped about her 
neck and clung there for a moment before dropping list- 
lessly back upon the bed. 

Passing her hand over the child’s forehead to be sure that 
she was cool, and that no lurking fever was there, Millicent 
went down to the dining-room again, to sit and listen for 
the coming step. 

She had heard the coach come and go; but instead of 
the place settling down again into its normal quiet, there 
seemed to be a great many people about, and hurrying 
footsteps were heard, such as would be at times when there 
was an alarm of fire in the town. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


145 


And yet it was not like that. More, perhaps, as if there 
were some meeting, and the steps died away. 

For a moment or two Millicent had been disposed to 
summon Thisbe, and send her to see what was wrong; but 
on drawing aside the curtains and looking out, the street 
seemed deserted ; and though there were a few figures in 
the market-place, they did not excite her surprise. 

“I am overwrought and excited,” she said to herself. 
” Ah ! at last.” 

There was no mistaking that step, and starting up, she 
ran into the hall to admit Hallam, who staggered in, closed 
the door quickly, and catching her hand, half dragged her 
into the dining-room. 

She clung to him in affright, for she could see that the 
cloak he wore was torn and muddied, that his face was 
ghastly pale, and that as he threw off his traveling-cap 
there was a terrible swelling across his forehead, as if he 
had received some tremendous blow. 

“Robert?” she exclaimed, “ what is the matter?” 

“Hush,” he said, quickly; “be quiet and calm. Has 
Thisbe gone to bed?” 

“ Yes. Yes, I think so.” 

“Quick, then; a basin and water, sponge and towel. I 
must bathe this place. ’ ’ 

“Did you fall?” she cried, as she hastily helped him off 
with the cloak. 

“ No. But quick! the water.” 

She hurried away, shivering with the dread of some new 
trouble to come, but soon returned with the sponge, and 
busied herself in bathing the hurt. 

“ I was attacked — by some ruffian,” said Hallam, 
hoarsely, as the water trickled and plashed back in the 
basin. “ He struck me with a bludgeon and left me sense- 
less. When I came to he was gone. ’ ’ 

“Robert, you horrify me!” cried Millicent. “This is 
dreadful.” . 

‘ ‘ Might have been worse, ’ ’ he said, coolly. “ There, now 
dry it, and listen to me the while.” 

“Yes, I am listening,” she said, forcing herself to be 
firm, and to listen to the words in spite of the curious 
doubting trouble that would oppress her. 

‘ ‘ As soon as I go up-stairs to put a few things together 
and get some papers, you will put on your bonnet and 
cloak and dress Julie.” 

“ Dress Julie!” 

“ Yes,” he said harshly, “without you wish me to leave 
you behind.” 

“You are going away, then?” 

“ Yes, I am going away,” he said, bitterly, “ after hesi- 


146 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


tating, with a fool’s hesitation, all these days. I ought 
to have gone before. ” 

“ How strangely you speak!” she said. 

“ Don’t waste time. Now go.” 

“One word, love, ’’she whispered, imploringly; “do we 
go for long?” 

“No; not for long,” he said. And then, with an impa- 
tient gesture, “ Bah!” he exclaimed; “ yes, forever.” 

She shrank from him in alarm. 

“ Well,” he said, harshly, as he glanced at his injury in 
the mirror, “ you are hesitating. Ido not force you. I 
am your husband, and I have a right to command; but I 
leave you free. Do you wish to stay?” 

A feeling of despair so terrible that it seemed crushing 
came over Millicent. To go from the home of her child- 
hood— to flee like this with her husband, probably in dis- 
grace, even if only through suspicion — was for the moment 
more than she could bear; and as he saw her momentary 
hesitation, an ugly, sneering laugh came upon his face. It 
faded, though, as she calmly laid her hand upon his arm. 

“ Am I to take any luggage?” she said. 

“Nothing but your few ornaments of value. Be 
quick.” 

She raised her lips and kissed him, and then seemed to 
glide out of the room. 

“Yes,” he said, “ I have been a fool and an idiot not to 
have gone before. Curse the fellow; who could it be?” he 
cried, as he pressed his hand to his injured forehead. 

He took out his keys and opened a drawer in a cabinet, 
taking from it a hammer and cold -chisel, and then stood 
thinking for a few moments before hurrying out, and into 
a little lobby behind the hall, from which he brought a 
small carpet-bag. 

“That will just hold it,” he said, “ and a few of the 
things that she is sure to have.” 

He turned into the dining-room, going softly, as if he 
were engaged in some nefarious act. Then he picked up 
the hammer and chisel, and was about to return into the 
hall, when he heard a low murmur, which seemed to be in- 
creasing, and with it the trampling of feet and shouts of 
excited rnen. 

“ What’s that?” he cried, with his countenance growing 
ghastly pale; and the cold-chisel fell to the floor with a 
clang. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


147 


CHAPTER XIIL 

A HUMAN STORM. 

The woman who had been acting the part of nurse to old 
Gerap was seated by the table, busily knitting a pair of 
blue worsted stockings by the light of a tallow candle, and 
every few minutes the snuff had so increased, and began 
to show so fungus-like a head, that the needles had to be 
left, a pair of snuffers taken out of their home in a niche 
that ran through the stem of the tin candlestick, and used 
to cut off the light- destroying snuff, with the effect that 
the snuffers were not suflSciently pinched to, and a thread 
of pale blue smoke rose from the incandescence within, 
and certainly with no good effect as far as fragrance was 
concerned. 

Old Gemp had been a great deal better. He had been 
up and dressed, and sat by the fireside for a couple of hours 
that afternoon, and had then expressed his determination 
not to go to bed. 

But his opposition was very slight ; and he was got to 
bed, where he semed to be lying thinking, and trying to 
recall something which evidently puzzled him. In fact, 
all at once he called his nurse. 

“Mrs. Freddie! Mrs. Freddie!” 

“Yes,” said that lady, with a weary air. 

“ What was I thinking about when I was took badly?” 

“ I don’t know,” said the woman, sourly — “ about some- 
body else’s business, I suppose.” 

Old Gemp grinned, and shook his head. Then he was 
silent, and lay staring about the room, passing his hand 
across his forehead every now and then, or shaving him- 
self with one finger, with which all at once he would point 
at his nurse. 

“ I say,” he cried, sharply. 

“Bless the man, how you made me jump!” cried Mrs. 
Freddie. “And for goodness’ sake, don’t point at me like 
that. Easy to see you’re getting better, and won’t want 
me long.” 

“No, no; don’t go away!” he exclaimed. “I can't 
think about it.” 

“Well, and no wonder neither. Why, bless the man! 
people don’t have bad fits o’ ’plexy and nob feel nothing 
after. There, lie still and go to sleep, there’s a good soul. 
It’ll do you good,” 

Mrs. Freddie snuffed the candle again, and made another 
unpleasant smell of burning, but paid no heed to it, fifty 
years of practice having accustomed her to that odor— an 
extremely common one in those da;^^s, when in ever^^ little 


148 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


town there was a tallow-melter, the fumes of whose works 
at certain times made themselves pretty well known for 
some distance round. •. 

This question was repeated by^old Gemp at intervals all 
through the evening. 

“What was I thinking about when I was took badly?"’ 
and Mrs. Freddie became irritated by his persistence. 

But this made no difference whatever to the old man, 
who scraped his stubbly chin witli his finger, and then 
pointed to ask again. For the trouble that had been upon 
his mind when he was stricken hung over him like a dark 
cloud, and he was always fighting mentally to learn what 
it all meant. 

“What was it? what was it? What was I thinking 
about?” Over and over and over, and no answer would 
come. Mrs. Freddie went on with her knitting, and ejacu- 
lated, “Bless the man!” and dropped stitches, and picked 
them up again, and at last grew so angry that, upon old 
Gemp asking her, for about the hundredth time that even- 
ing, that same wearisome question, she cried out: 

“ Drat the man! how should I know? Look ye here, if 

you Oh! I won’t stand no more of this nonsense!” 

She rose and went into the kitchen. “ Dr. Liutrell said if 
he got more restless he was to have it,” she grumbled to 
herself, “ and he’s quite unbearable to-night.” 

She poured out a double dose from a bottle left in her 
charge, and chuckled as she said to herself, “ ThatTl quiet 
him for the night.” 

Old Gemp was sitting up in bed when she returned to 
the bedroom ; and once more his pointed finger rose, and 
he was about to speak, when Mrs. Freddie interfered. 

“There, that’ll do, my dear! and now you’ve got to take 
this here physic directly, to do you good.” 

The old man looked at her in a vacant, helpless way for 
a few moments, and then his countenance grew angry, and 
he motioned the medicine aside. 

“ Oh, come now, it’s of no use! You’ve got to take it, 
so now then !” 

She pressed the cup toward his lips; but the old man 
struck at it angrily, and it flew across the room, splashing 
' the bed with the opium-impregnated liquid, and then shat- 
tering on the cemented floor. 

“ Well, of all the owd rips as ever I did see!” cried the 
woman. “Oh. you are better, then!” 

“ What was I thinking about when I was took badly?” 
cried Gemp. pointing, as if nothing had happened. 

“ Oh. about your money in the bank, for aught I knQ-vy {” 
cried the woman. 

“to!” 


mm MAN^S WIFIC, 


149 


The old man clapped his hands to his forehead and held 
them there for a few minutes, staring straight before him 
at the bedroom wall. 

He had uttered that ejaculation so sharply that the 
woman started and recoiled from him, in ignorance of the 
fact that she had touched the key-note that had set the 
fibers of his memory athrill. 

“ Why, what’s come to you!” she said. ‘‘ Sakes, man, 
you’re not worse?” 

Old Gemp did not reply for a few moments. Then, 
stretching out one hand, and pointing at his nurse, “Go 
and fetch doctor. Go at once. Quick, I say, quick!” 

The old woman stared in alarm for a few moments, and 
then, catching her bonnet and shawl from a nail, she hur- 
riedly put them on and went out. 

“ And I’ve been a- lying here,” panted Gemp, sliding his 
legs out of bed, and dressing himself quickly. “ I remem- 
ber now. I know. And perhaps all gone— deeds, writings 
—all gone. I knew there was something wrong— I knew 
there was something wrong!” 

In five minutes he was out in the street, and had reached 
his friend the tailor, who stared aghast at him at first; 
but as soon as he heard his words, blazed up as if fire had 
been applied to tow, and then subsided with a cunning 
look. 

“Let’s keep it quiet, neighbor,” he said, “and go to- 
morrow morning and see what we can do with Hallam. 
Ah!” he cried, as a tliought flashed across his mind, “he 
has not been at the bank these three or four days. You’re 
right, neighbor, there is something wrong.” 

Just at that moment, seeing the door open, another 
neighbor stepped in, heard the last words, and saw Gemp’s 
wild, miserly face agitated by the horror of his loss. 

“ What’s wrong?” he cried. 

“ Wrong? That scoundrel, Hallam! That thief ! that 

The new-comer started,. 

“ Don’t say there’s owt wrong wi’ Dixon’s?” he panted. 

“ Yes, yes!” cried Gemp. “ My deeds, my writings! I 
saw parson and Thickens busy together. They were tack- 
ling Hallam when I was took badly. Hallam’s a rogue ! I 
warned you all— a rogue ! a rogue ! See how he has been 
going on !’ ’ 

“ Neighbor,” groaned the new-comer, “ they’ve got all I 
have in the world up yonder in the bank.” 

“ Oh, but it can’t be true,” said the tailor, with a strug- 
gle to catch at a straw of hope. 

“Ay, but it is true,” said the last comer, whose face was 
ghastly; “and I’m a ruined man!” 


150 mis MAN^S WIFU. < 

“ Nay, nay, wait a bit. P’r’aps Hallam has only been 
ill.” 

“ 111 ! It was he, then, I’ll swear, I saw to-ni§ht walk by 
me in a cloak and cap. He were going off. Neighbors, are 
we to sit still and bear a thing like this?” 

“I’ll hev my writings, I’ll hev my writings!” cried 
Gemp, hoarsely, as he clawed at the air with his trembling 
hands. 

“ Is owt wrong?” said a fresh voice, and another of the 
Castor tradesmen sauntered in, pipe in mouth. 

In another minute he knew all they had to tell, and the 
light was indeed now applied to the tow. Reason and 
common sense were thrown to the winds, and a wild, self- 
ish madness took their place. 

Dixon’s, the stable, the most substantial house in the 
county, the stronghold where the essence of all the prop- 
erty for miles round was kept, was now a bank of straw ; 
and the flame ran from house to house like the wildfire it 
w’as. Had an enemy invaded the place, or the fire that 
burns, there could not have been greater consternation; 
the stability of the bank touched so many ; while, as the 
news flew from mouth to mouth, hundreds who had not 
a shilling in the bank, never had, nor ever would have, 
took up the matter with the greatest indignation, and 
joined in the excitement, and seemed the most aggrieved. 
There was nothing to go upon but old Gemp’s suspicion; 
but that spark had been enough to light the fire of popular 
indignation, and before long, in the midst of a score of 
different proposals, old Gemp started for the bank, sup- 
ported by his two nearest neighbors, and across the dim 
market-place the increasing crowd made its way. 

Mr. Trampleasure was smoking his evening cigar on the 
step of the private door of the bank. The cigar a pres- 
ent from Sir Gordon; the permission to smoke there a 
present from Mrs. Trampleasure. 

He heard wonderingly the noise of tumult, saw the 
crowd approaching, and prudently went in and shut and 
bolted the doors, going up to a window to parley with the 
crowd, as the bell was rung furiously, and some one beat 
at the door of the bank with a stick. 

“ What is it?” he said. 

“My deeds! my writings!” cried Gemp. “I want my 
deeds!” 

“ Who’s that? Mr. Gemp? My dear sir, the bank’s 
closed, as you know. Come to-morrow morning.” 

“No, no! Give the man his deeds. Here, break down 
the door!” cried a dozen voices; and the rough element 
that was to be found in King’s Castor, as well as elsewhere, 
uttered a shout and began to kick at the door. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


151 


“ Come away, Gemp. We shall get nothing if these fel- 
lows break in.” 

‘‘Look here!” cried a shrill voice at the window; and 
there was a cessation of the noise as Mrs. Trarapleasure 
leaned out. ‘‘We’ve got pistols and blunderbusses here, 
as you all know, and if you don’t be olf we shall fire.” 

‘* Open the doors then,” cried a rough voice. 

“We haven’t got the keys. Mr. Thickens keeps them.” 

There Avas a shout at this, for the crowd, like all crowds, 
was ready to snatch at a change, and away they ran to- 
Avard the mill. In five minutes, though, they Avere tearing 
back, failing to find Thickens; and a cry had been raised 
by the man with the rough voice, and one of the poorest 
idiers of the town, the keenest redresser of Avrong now. 

“Hallam’s! to Hallam’s!” he yelled. “ Hev him out, 
lads. We’ll hev him out. Hurray, lads, come on!” 

The tradesmen and depositors at Dixon’s Bank looked 
aghast now at the mischief done. They saAv how they 
had opened a crack in the dam, and that the crack had 
Avidened, the dam had given way, and the turbulent 
Avaters Avere about to carry all before them. 

It Avas in vain to speak now, for the indignant poor Avere 
in the front, and the tailor, Gemp, and others, Avho had 
been the leaders in the movement, found themselves in a 
pitiful minority, and AA’-ere ready to retreat. 

But that Avas impossible now. They were in the crowd, 
and Avere carried with them across the market-place and 
down the street to Hallam’s house, AA^here they beat and 
thumped at the door. 

There Avas no answer for a feAv minutes, and they beat 
and roared. Then some one threAv a stone and smashed a 
pane of glass. This earned a cheer, and a shower of stones 
followed, the panes shivering and tinkling down inside and 
out of the house. 

Millicent Avas wrong Avhen she said that Thisbe had gone 
to bed, for that worthy was having Avhat she called a quiet 
read in her room, and noAv as the AvindoAvs were breakiiig, 
and Millicent Avas shielding Julia, Avhom, half aAvake, she 
liad just dressed, there Avas an increase in the roar, for 
Thisbe had gone down, more indignant than alarmed, and 
throAvn open the door. 

Then there Avas a dead silence, the silence of surprise, as 
Thisbe stood in the doorway, and, as a great hulking lad 
strove to push by her, struck him a sounding slap on the 
face. 

There Avas a yell of laughter at this, and silence again, 
as Thisbe spoke. 

“ What do you Avant?” she cried, boldly. 

“Hallam! Hallam! In with you, lads; fetch him out.” 


152 


THIS MAN^S WIFH. 


“ No, no ; stop, stop ! My deeds ! my writings !” shrieked 
Gemp; but his voice was drowned in the yelling of the 
mob, who now forced their way in, filling the hall, the 
dining and drawing-rooms, and then making for the old- 
fashioned staircase. 

“ He’s oop-stairs, lads; hev him down!” cried the leader, 
and the men pressed forward with a yell, their faces look- 
ing wild and strange by the light of the lamp and the can- 
dle Thisbe had placed upon a bracket by the stairs. 

But here their progress was stopped by Millicent, who, 
pale with dread, but with a spot as of fire in either cheek, 
stood at the foot of the staircase, holding the frightened 
child to her side, while Thisbe forced her way before her. 

” What do you want?” she cried, firmly. 

“ Thy master, missus. Stand aside, we won’t hurt thee. 
We want Hallam.” 

“What do you want with him?” cried Millicent again. 

‘‘We want him to give oop the money he’s stole, and the 
keys o’ bank. Stand aside wi’ you. Hev him down.” 

There was a crash, a struggle, and Millicent and her 
shrieking child were dragged down roughly, but good- 
humoredly, by the crowd tiiat filled the hall, while others 
kept forcing their way in. As for Thisbe, as she fought 
and struck out bravely, her hands were pinioned behind 
her, and the group were held in the corner of the hall, 
while with a shout the mob rushed up-stairs. 

‘ ‘ Here, let go, ’ ’ panted Thisbe to the men who held her. 
‘‘ I won’t do so any more. Let me take the bairn.” 

The men loosed her at once, and they formed a ring 
about their prisoners. 

‘‘ Let me have her. Miss Milly,” she whispered, and she 
took Julia in her arms, while Millicent, freed from this 
charge, made an effort to get to the stairs, 

“Nay, nay, missus. Thou’rt better down here,” said 
one of her jailers, roughly ; and the trembling woman was 
forced to stay, but onl^y to keep imploring the men to let 
her pass. Meanwhile the mob was running from room to 
room without success ; and at each shout of disappoint- 
ment a throb of hope and joy made Millicent’ s heart leap. 

She exchanged glances with Thisbe. 

“He has escaped,” she whispered. 

“More shame for him, then,” cried Thisbe. “Why 
ain’t he here to protect his wife and bairn?” 

At that moment a fierce yelling and cheering was heard 
up-stairs, where the mob had reached the attic door and 
detected that it was locked on the inside. 

The door was strong, but double the strength would not 
have held it against the fierce onslaught made, and in an- 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


153 


other minute, amid fierce yelling, the tide began to set 
back as the word was passed down, “They’ve got him.” 

Millicent's brain reeled, and for a few moments she 
seemed to lose consciousness; but as she saw Hallam, pale, 
bleeding, his hair torn and disheveled, dragged down the 
stairs by the infuriated mob, her love gave her strength. 
Wresting herself from those who would have restrained 
her, she forced her way to her husband’s side, flung her 
arms about him as he was driven back against the wall, 
and, turning her defiant face to the mob, made of her own 
body a shield. 

There was a moment’s pause, then a yell, and the 
leader’s voice cried: 

“Never mind her. Hev him out, lads, and then clear 
the house. 

There was a fresh roar at this, and then blows were 
struck right and left in the dim light; the lamp was 
dashed over, the light curtains by the window where 
it stood blazed up, and cast a lurid light over the scene. 
For a moment the crowd recoiled as they saw the flushed 
and bleeding face of Christie Bayle, as he struck out right 
and left till he had fought his way to where he could plant 
himself before Millicent and her husband, and try to keep 
the assailants back. 

The surprise was only of a few minutes’ duration. 

“You lads, he’s only one. Come on! Hallam; let’s us 
judge and jury him.” 

“You scoundrels!” roared Bayle, “a man must be 
judged by his country, and not by such ruffians as you.” 

“ Hev him out, lads, ’fore the place is burned over your 
heads. ’ ’ 

“Back! stand back, co^vards!” cried Bayle. “Do you 
not see the woman and the child? Back; out of the place, 
you dogs!” 

“ Dogs as can bite, too, parson,” cried the leader. 
“ Come on.” He made a dash at Hallam, getting him by 
the collar, but only to collapse with a groan, so fierce was 
the blow that struck him on the ear. 

Again there was a pause, a murmur of rage, and the 
wooden support of the valance of the curtains began to 
crackle, while the hall was filling fast with stifling smoke. 

One leader down, another sprung in his place, for the 
crowd was roused. 

“Hev him out, lads! Quick, we have him now.” There 
was a rush, and Hallam was torn from Millicent’s grasp, 
from Christie Bayle’s protecting arms, and with a yell the 
crowd rushed out into the street, lit now by the glow from 
the smashed hall windows and the fire that burned within. 

“My husband! Christie— dear friend— help! oh, help!” 


154 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


wailed Millicent, as she tottered out to the front in time to 
see Bayle literally leap to Hallam’s side, and again strike 
the leader down. 

It was the last effort of his strength, and now a score of 
hands were tearing and striking at the wretched victim, 
when there was the olattering of horses’ hoofs, and a 
mounted man rode right into the crowd with half a dozen 
followers at his side. 

“Stop!” he roared; “I am a magistrate. Constables, 
do your duty.” 

The mob fell back, and as five men, with whom was 
Thickens, seized upon Hallam, Millicent tottered into the 
circle and sank at her husband’s feet. 

“Saved!” she sobbed; “saved!” 

For the first time Hallam found his voice, and cried, as 
he tried to shake himself free : 

“ This— this is a mistake — constables. Loose me. These 
men ” 

“ It is no mistake, Mr. Hallam; you are arrested for em- 
bezzlement,” said the mounted man, sternly. 

“Three cheers for Sir Gordon Bourne and Dixon’s,” 
shouted one in the crowd. 

Christie Bayle had just time to catch Millicent Hallam 
in his arms as her senses left her, and with a piteous moan 
she sank back utterly stunned. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

WRITHING IN HER AGONY. 

“ Mother !— father ! Oh, in Heaven’s na,me speak to me ! 
I cannot bear it. My heart is broken. What shall I do?” 

*‘My poor darling I” sobbed Mrs. Luttrell, holding her 
child to her breast and rocking to and fro, while the doctor 
sat with wrinkled face nursing and caressing Julia, who 
clung to him in a scared fashion, not having yet got over 
the terrors of the past night. 

She had her arms about her grandfather, and nestled in 
his breast, but every now and then she started up to gaze 
piteously in his face. 

“Would my dolls all be burned, grandpa?” 

“Oh, I hope not, my pet,” he said, soothingly; “but 
never mind if they are : grandpa will buy you some better 
ones. ’ ’ 

“But I liked those, grandpa, and— and is my little bed 
burned, too?” 

“No, my pet; I think not. I hope not. They put the 
fire out before it did a great deal of harm.” 

The child laid her head down again for a few moments, 
and then looked up, anxiously. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


155 


“ Thibs says the bod men tore the place all to pieces last 
night, and broke all the furniture and looking-glasses. 
Oh! grandpa, I— I— I ” 

Suffering still from the nervous shock of the past night’s 
alarm, the poor child’s breast heaved, and she burst into 
a pitiful fit of sobbing, which was some time before it sub- 
sided. 

“Don’t think about it at all, my pet,” said the doctor, 
tenderly stroking the soft little head. “Never mind 
about the old house; you shall come and live here with 
grandpa, and we’ll have such games in the old garden 
again.” 

“Yes, and I may smell the fiowers, and— -and— but I 
want our own house too.” 

“Ah, well, we shall see. There, you are not to think 
any more about that now.” 

“Why doesn’t Mr. Bayle come, grandpa? Did the bad 
people hurt him very much?” 

“Oh no, my darling; he’s all right, and he punished 
some of them.” 

“ And when will papa come?” 

“ Hush, child,” cried Millicent, in a harsh, strange voice, 
“ I cannot bear to hear yoii.” 

The child looked at her in a scared manner and clung to 
her grandfather, but struggled from his embrace directly 
after, and ran to her mother, throwing her arms about 
her, and kissing her and sobbing : 

“ Oh, my own dear, dear mamma!” 

“My darling, my darling!” cried Millicent. passionately 
clasping her to her breast ; and Mrs. Luttrell drew away 
to leave them together, creeping quietly to the doctor’s 
side, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, looking 
the while in his eyes as if asking whether she were doing 
wisely. 

The doctor nodded, and for a few minutes there was no 
sound heard but Millicent’s sobs. 

“I wish Mr. Bayle would come,” said Julia, all at once, 
in her silvery childish treble. 

“Silence, child!” cried Millicent, fiercely. “Father 
dear, speak to me; can you not help me in this trouble? 
You know the charge is all false.” 

“ My darling, I will do everything I can.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know, but every one seems to have turned 
against us— Sir Gordon, Mr. Bayle, the whole town. It is 
some terrible mistake, all some fearful error. How dare 
they charge my husband with a crime?” 

She gazed fiercely at her father as she spoke, and the old 
man stood with his arm about Mrs. Luttrell and his lips 
compressed. 


156 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


“You do not speak,” cried Millicent; “surely you are 
not going to turn against us, father?” 

“Oh! Milly, my own child,” sobbed Mrs. Luttrell, run- 
ning to her to take her head to her breast, “ don’t speak to 
us like that; as if papa would do any tiling but help you.” 

“Of course, of course,” cried Millicent, excitedly ; “but 
there, I must put off all this pitiful wailing.” 

She rose in a quiot, determined way, and wiped her eyes 
hastily, arranged her hair, and began to walk up and down 
the room. Then, stopping, she forced a smile, and bent 
down and kissed Julia, sending a flash of joy through her 
countenance. 

‘ ‘ Go and look round the garden, darling. Pick mamma 
a nice bunch of flowers.” 

“ Will you come too, grandpa?” cried the child, eagerly. 

“ ITl come to you presently, darling,” said the doctor, 
nodding; and the child bounded to the open window with 
a sigh of relief, but lan back to kiss each in turn. 

“Now we can speak,” cried Millicent, panting, as she 
forced herself to be calm. “There is no time for girlish 
sobbing when such a call as this is made upon me. The 
whole town is against poor Eobert; they have wrecked 
and burned our house, and they have cast him into prison.” 

“My darling, be calm, be calm,” said the doctor, sooth- 
ingly. 

“Yes, I am calm,” she said, “and I am going to work — 
and help my husband. Now tell me, what is to be done 
first? He is in the prison.” 

“ Yes, my child, but leave this now. I will do all I can, 
and will tell you everything. You have had no sleep all 
night; go and lie down now for a few hours.” 

* ‘ Sleep ! and at a time like this I’ ’ cried Millicent. ‘ ‘ Now 
tell me— will he be brought up before the magistrates to- 
day?” 

“Yes, my child.” 

“ And he must have legal advice to counteract all this 
cruel charge that has been brought against him. Poor fel- 
low ! so troubled as he has been of late.” 

The doctor looked at her with the lines in his forehead 
deepening. 

“ If they had given him time he would have proved to 
them how false all these charges are. But we are wasting 
time. The lawyer, father; and he will have to be paid. 
You will help me, father; we must have money.” 

The doctor exchanged glances with his wife." 

“You have some, of course?” he said, turning to Milli- 
cent. 

“I? No. Eobert has been so pressed lately. But you 
will lend us all we want. You have plenty, father.” 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


157 


The doctor was silent and half turned away. 

“Father!” cried Millicent, catching his hand, “don’t 
you turn from me in my distress. I tell you Robert is in« 
nocent, and only wants time to prove it to all the world. 
You will let me have the money for his defense?” 

The doctor remained silent. 

“ Father!” cried Millicent, in a tone of command. 

“Hush! my darling ; your poor father has no money,” 
sobbed Mrs. Luttrell, “and sometimes lately we have not 
known which way to turn for a few shillings.” 

“Oh, father!” cried Millicent, reproachfully. “But 
there is the house. You must borrow money on its secu- 
rity, enough to pay for the best counsel in London. Robert 
■will repay you a hundred-fold.” 

The doctor turned away and walked to the window. 

“ Father!” cried Millicent, “ am I your child?” 

“ My child ! my darling!” he cried, coming quickly back, 
“ how can, you speak to me in such a tone?” 

“ How can you turn from me at such a time, when the 
honor of my dear husband is at stake? What are a 
few paltry hundred pounds to that? You cannot, you 
shall not refuse. There, I know enough business for that. 
The lawyers will lend you money on the security of this 
house. Go at once and get what is necessary. Why do 
you hesitate?” 

“ My poor darling!” said Mrs. Luttrell, piteously, “don’t, 
pray don’t, speak to your father like that.” 

“ I must help my husband,” cried Millicent, hoarsely. 

“Yes, yes, and you shall, my dear; but be calm, be 
calm. There, there, there.” 

“ Mother, I must hear my father speak,” said Millicent, 
sternly. “ I come to him in sore distress and poverty. My 
home has been wrecked by last night’s mob, my poor hus- 
band half killed and torn from me to be cast into prison. 
I come to my father for help— a few pitiful pounds— and 
he seems to side with my husband’s enemies.” 

“Milly, my darling, ITl do everything lean,” cried the 
doctor; “but you ask impossibilities. The house is not 
mine. ’ ’ 

“Not yours, father?” 

“ Hush! hush, my dear!” sobbed Mrs. Luttrell. “ I can’t 
explain to you now, but poor papa was obliged to sell it a 
little while ago.” 

‘‘Where is the money?” said Millicent, fiercely. 

‘‘It was all gone before— the mortgages,” said Mrs. 
Luttrell. 

“And who bought it,” cried Millicent, 

“Mr. Bayle.” 

There a pause of a few rnoiperits’ duration, and 


158 THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

then the suffering woman seemed to flash out into a fit of 
passion. 

“Mr. Bayle again!” she cried. 

“Yes, Mr. Bayle, our friend.” 

At that moment there came a burst of merry laughter 
from the garden, while sounds floated in through the open 
window, with the sweet scents of the flowers, and directly 
after Julia, looking flushed and happy, appeared at the 
window, holding Christie Bayle’s hand. 

Bayle paused as he saw the group within, and then 
slowly entered. 

“Mamma, I knew Mr. Bayle would come!” cried Julia, 
excitedly. “ But, oh, look at him, he has hurt himself so! 
He is so— so Oh, I can’t bear it! I can’t bear it !” 

The memories of the past night came back in a flash — 
the hurried awaking from sleep, the dressing, the sounds 
of the mob, the breaking windows, the fire, and the wild 
struggle; and the poor child sobbed and trembled hyster- . 
ically, as Bayle sunk upon his knees and took her to his 
breast. 

There she clung, as he caressed her and whispered com- 
forting words — Millicent the while standing back, erect and 
stern, and Mrs. Luttrell and the doctor, with troubled 
countenances, looking on. 

In a few minutes the child grew calm again, and then, 
without a word, Millicent crossed to the fireplace and rang 
the bell. It was answered directly by the doctor’s maid. 

“Send Thisbe here,” said Millicent, sternly. 

In another minute Thisbe, who looked very white and 
troubled, appeared at the door, gazing sharply from one 
to the other. 

“Julie, go to Thisbe,” said Millicent, in a cold, harsh 
voice. 

The child looked up quickly, and clung to Bayle. as she 
gazed at her mother with the same shrinking, half -scared 
look she had so often directed at her father. 

“ Julie!” 

The child ran across to Thisbe, and Bayle bit his lip, and 
his brow contracted, for he caught the sound of a low wail 
as the door was closed. 

Then, advancing to her with his face full of the pity he 
felt, Bayle held out his hand to Millicent and then let it 
fall, as she stood motionless, gazing fiercely in his face, till 
he lowered his eyes, and his head sunk slowly, while he 
heaved a sigh. 

“ You have come, then,” she said — “ come to look upon 
your work. You have come to enjoy your triumph. 
False friend! Coward! Treacherous villain ! You have 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


m 


cast my husband into prison, and now you dare to meet 
me face to face!” 

“Mrs. Hallam! Millicent!” he cried, looking up, his 
face flushing as he met her eyes, “ what are you saying?” 

“ The truth!” she cried, flercely. “ He knew you better 
than I. He warned me against you. His dislike had 
cause; while I, poor, weak, trusting woman, believed you 
our friend, and let you crawl and enlace yourself about 
our innocent child’s heart, while all the time you were 
forming your plans, and waiting for your chance to 
strike !” 

‘•Mrs. Hallam,” said Bayle, calmly, and with a voice 
full of pity, “you do not know what you are saying.” 

“Not know! when my poor husband told me all!— 
how you waited until he was in difficulties, and then 
plotted with that wretched menial. Thickens, to overthrow 
him! I know you now; cowardly, cruel man! unworthy 
of a thought! But let me tell you that you win no 
triumph. You thought to separate us— to make the whole 
world turn from him whom you have cast into prison. 
You have succeeded in tightening the bonds between us. 
The trouble will pass as soon as my husband’s innocence is 
shown, while your conduct will cling to you, and show 
itself like some stain !’ ’ 

A look as angry as her own came over his countenance, 
but it passed in a moment, and he said, gravely: 

‘ ‘ I came to offer you my sympathy and help in this time 
of need.” 

“Your help, your sympathy!” cried Millicent, scorn- 
fully. “You, who planned, here, in my presence, with Sir 
Gordon, my husband’s ruin! Leave this house, sir! Stay, 
I forgot. By your machinations you are master here. 
Mother, father, let us go. The world is wide, and Heaven 
will not let such villainy triumph in the end.” 

“Oh, hush! hush!” exclaimed Bayle, sternly. “Mrs. 
Hallam, you know not what you say. Doctor, come on to 
me, I wish to see you. Dear Mrs. Luttrell, let me help you 
all I can. Good-bye. God bless you in your trouble. 
Good -bye.” 

He then bent down and kissed the old lady; and as he 
pressed her hand she clung to his, and kissed it in return. 

“ Good-bye, Mrs. Hallam,” he said, holding out his hand 
once more. 

She turned from him with a look of disgust and loath- 
ing, and he went slowly out, as he had come, with his 
head bent, along the road, and on to the market-place. 


160 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A CRITICAL TIME. 

There was only one bit of business going on in King’s 
Castor that morning among the mechanics, and that was 
where two carpenters were busy nailing boards across the 
gaping windows and broken door of Hallam’s house. 

The ivy about the hall-window was all scorched, and the 
frames of that and two windows above were charred; but 
only the hall, staircase, and one room had been burned 
before the fire was extinguished. The greater part of the 
place, though, was a wreck, the mob having wreaked their 
vengeance upon the furniture when Hallam was snatched 
from their hands by the lavv ; and for about an hour the 
self-constituted avengers of the customers at Dixon’s Bank 
had behaved like Goths. 

It was impossible for work to go on with such a night to 
canvass One group, as Bayle approached, was watching 
the little fire-engine, and the drying of its hose, which was 
hauled up by one end over the branch of an oak-tree at 
Poppin’s Corner. 

There was nothing to see but the little, contemptible, old 
fashioned pump on wheels; but fifty people, who had seen 
it in the belfry every Sunday as they went to church, 
stopped to stare at it now. 

But the great group was round about the manager’s 
house, many of them being the idlers and scamps of the 
place, who had been foremost in the destruction. 

The public houses had their contingents ; and here there 
were the farmers from all round, who had driven in, red- 
hot with excitement, and, as soon as they had left their 
gigs or carts in the inn-yard, were making their way up to 
the bank. 

Some did not stop to go to the inn, but were there in 
their conveyances, waiting for the bank to open, long be- 
fore the time, and there was quite a murmur of menace 
going on, when, to the very moment, James Thickens, 
calm and cool and drab as usual, threw open the door, to 
be driven back by a party of those gathered together. 

Fortunately the news had spread slowly, so that the 
crowd was not large ; but it was augmented by a couple of 
score of the blackguards of the place, hungry -eyed, moist 
of lip, and ready for any excuse to leap over the bank- 
counter and begin the work of plunder. 

For the first time in his life James Thickens performed 
that feat, leaping over the counter, to place it between 
biihself and the clamornus mob, wbo saw Mr. Trampleas- 


THIS MAN^S WIFL\ 161 

lire there, and Sir Gordon Bourne in the manager’s room 
with the door open, and something on the table. 

“Here! here!” “Here! me!” “No, me!” “I was 
first!” “No, me, Thickens!” “My money 1” “My 
check !” “ Change these notes !’ ’ 

The time was many years ago, and there were no dozen 
or two of county constabulary to draft into the place for 
its protection. Hence it was that as Thickens stood, cool 
and silent before the excited crowd, Sir Gordon, calm and 
stern, appeared in the doorway with a couple of pistols in 
his left hand, one held by the butt, the other by the barrel 
passed under his thumb. 

“ Silence!” he cried, in a quick, commanding tone. “ I 
am prepared ” 

“Yah! No speeches! Our money! Our ” 

“ Silence !” roared Sir Gordon. “ We are waiting to pay 
all demands.” 

“Hear! hear! Hooray!” shouted one of the farmers, 
who had come in hot haste, and his mottled face grew 
calm. 

“ But we can’t ” 

“Yah ! yah !” came in a menacing yell. 

“Over with you, lads!” cried a great ruffian, clapping 
his hands on the counter and making a spring, which the 
pressure behind checked and hindered so that he only got 
one leg on the counter. 

“Back, you ruffian!” cried Sir Gordon, taking a step 
forward, and, quick as lightning, presenting a pistol at the 
fellow’s head. “ You, Dick Warren, I gave you six months 
for stealing corn. Move an inch forward, and as I’m a 
man I’ll fire. ” 

There was a fierce murmur, and then a pause. 

The great ruffian half crouched upon the counter, cross- 
ing hiis eyes in his fear, and squinting crookedly down the 
pistol- barrel, which was within a foot of his head. 

“I say, gentlemen and customers, that Mr. Thickens 
here is waiting to pay over all demands on Dixon’s Bank.” 

“ Hear! hear!” cried the farmer who had before spoken. 

“But there are twenty or thirty dirty ruffians among 
you, and people who do not bank with us, and I must ask 
you to turn them out.” 

There was a fierce murmur here, and Sir Gordon’s voice 
rose again high and clear. 

“Mr. Trampleasure,.you will find the two blunderhusses 
ready in the upper room. Go up, sir, and without hesita- 
tion shoot down the first scoundrel who dares to throw a 
stone at the bank. ” 

“Yes, Sir Gordon,” said Trampleasure, who dared not 
have fired a piece to save his life, but who gladly beat a re- 


162 


TBIS MAN’S WIFN. 


treat to the first-floor .window, where he stood with one 
short blunderbuss in his hand, and Mrs. Trampleasure with 
the other. 

“ Now, gentlemen,” cried Sir Gordon, “ I am waiting for 
you to clear the bank.” 

There was another fierce growl at this ; but the mottled- 
faced farmer, who had ridden in on his stout cob, and who 
carried a hunting-crop with an old-fashioned iron hammer- 
head, spat on his fist, and turned the handle. 

“ Now, neighbors and friends as is customers !” he roared, 
in a stentorian voice, ‘‘I’m ready when you are.” 

As he spoke he caught the man half on the counter by 
the collar, and dragged him off. 

‘‘ Here, keep your hands off me!” 

‘‘ Yow want to fight, yow’d ” 

“Yah! ha!” 

Then a scuffling and confused growl, and one or two ap- 
peals to sticks and fists ; but in five minuies every man not 
known as a customer of the bank was outside, and the 
farmers gave a cheer, which was answered by a yell from 
the increasing mob, a couple of dozen of whom had stooped 
for stones and began to flourish sticks. 

But the stout farmer, who was on the steps between the 
two pillars that flanked the entrance, put his hand to his 
mouth, as if about to give a view halloo ! 

“Look out for the bloonder-boosh, my lads.” And then 
turning his head up to the window where Mr. Trampleasure 
stood, weapon in hand, “ Tak’ a good aim on the front, and 
gie it’ em— whang! Mr. Trampleasure, sir. Thee’ll scatter 
the sloogs fine.” 

Not a stone was thrown, and by this time James Thick- 
ens was busy at work canceling with his quill pen, and 
counting and weighing out gold. He never offered one of 
Dixon’s notes; silver and gold, current coin of the realm, 
was all he passed over the counter and though the cus- 
tomers pressed and hurried to get their checks or notes 
changed. Thickens retained his coolness and went on. 

At the end of a quarter of an hour the excitement was 
subsiding, but the bank was still full of farmers and 
tradespeople, the big burly man with the hunting-crop be- 
ing still by the counter, unpaid. 

All at once, after watching the paying over of the money 
for some time, he began hammering the mahogany 
counter heavily with the iron handle of his whip. 

“ Here, howd hard!” he roared. 

Sir Gordon, who had put the pistols on the table, and 
was sitting on the manager’s chair, coolly reading his 
newspaper in full view, laid it down and rose to come to 
the open glass door. 


mis MAN^S WIFE, 


1GB 


“ Ay, that’s right, Sir Gordon. I want a word wi' thee. 
I’m not a man to go on wi’ fullishness; but brass is brass, 
and a hard thing to get howd on. Now look ye here. 
Howd hard, neighbors, I haven’t got much to saya.” 

“What is it, Mr. Anderson?” said Sir Gordon, calmly. 

“Why, this much. Sir Gordon and neighbors. Friend 
o’ mine comes out o’ the town this morning and says, ‘ If 
thou’st got any brass i’ Dixon’s Bank, run and get it, lad, 
for Maester Hallam’s bo’ted, and bank’s boosted oop. 
Now, Sir Gordon, it don’t look as if bank hev boosted 
oop.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Sir Gordon smiling. 

“ Hev Maester Hallam bo’ted, then, or is that a lee too?” 

“I am sorry to say that Mr. Hallam has been arrested 
on a charge of fraud.” 

“That be true, then!” said the farmer. “Well, now, 
look here, Sir Gordon ; I’ve banked wi’ you over twanty 
year, and I can’t afford to lose my brass. ’Tween man 
and man, is my money safe?” 

“Perfectly, Mr. Anderson.’.’ 

“ That’ll do. Sir Gordon,” said the farmer, tearing up 
the check he held in his hand, and scattering it over his 
head. “ I’ll tak’ Sir Gordon’s word or Dixon’s if they say 
it’s all right. I don’t want my brass.” 

“Gentlemen,” said Sir Gordon, flushing slightly, “if 
you will trust me and my dear old friend, Mr. Dixon, you 
shall be paid all demands to the last penny we have. I 
am sorry to say that I have discovered a very heavy defal- 
cation on the part of our late manager, and the loss will 
be large ; but that loss will fall upon us, gentlemen, not 
upon you.” 

“But I want my deeds, my writings,” cried a voice. 
“I’m not a-going to be cheated out o’ my rights.” 

“ Who is that?” said Sir Gordon. 

“Mr. Gemp, Sir Gordon.” said Thickens, quickly. 
“Deposit of deeds of row of houses in Rochester Close; 
and shares.” 

“ Mr. Gemp,” said Sir Gordon, “I am afraid your deeds 
are among others that are missing.” 

‘ ‘ Ay ! ay 1 Robbers ! robbers I’ ’ shouted Gemp, excitedly. 

“ No, Mr. Gemp, we are not robbers,” said Sir Gordon. 
“If you will employ your valuer, I will employ ours; and 
as soon as they have decided the amount, Mr. James 
Thickens will pay you— to-day if you can get the business 
done, and the house and shares are Dixon’s,” 

‘ ‘ Hear ! hear ! hear 1’ ’ shouted Anderson. ‘ ‘ There, neigh’ 
bor, he can’t say fairer than that.” 

“ Nay, I want my writings, and I don’t want to sell. X 
want my writings. I’ll have ’em, too.” 


1C4 


mis MAN'S WINE. 


“Shame on you, Gemp,” said a voice behind him. 
“ Three days ago you were at death’s door. Your life was 
spared, and this is the thank-offering you make to your 
neighbors in their trouble.” 

“Nay; don’t you talk like that, parson, thou doesn’t 
know what it is to lose thy all, ’ ’ piped Gemp. 

“ Lose?” cried Bayle, who had entered the bank quietly 
to see Sir Gordon. ‘ ‘ Man, I have lost heavily too. ’ ’ 

Thickens was making signs to him now with his quill- 
pen. 

“ Ay, but I want my writings. I’ll have my writings,” 
cried Gemp. “ Neighbors, you have your money. Don’t 
you believe ’em. They’re robbers.” 

“ If I weer close to thee, owd Gemp, I’d take thee by the 
scruff and the band o’ thy owd breeches and pitch thee 
out o’ window. Sir Gordon’s ready to do the handsome 
thing.” 

“Touch me if you dare,” cried old Gemp. “ I want’ my 
writings. It was bank getting unsafe made me badly. 
You, neighbors, have all thy money out, for they haven’t 
got enough to last long. ’ ’ 

There was a fresh murmur here, and Sir Gordon looked 
anxious. Mr. Anderson stood fast; but it was evident that 
a strong party were waiting for their money, and more 
than one began to twitch Thickens by the sleeve, and pres- 
sent checks and notes. 

Thickens paid no need, but made his way to where 
Christie Bayle was standing, and handed him a pocket- 
book. 

“Here,” he said. “I couldn’t come to you. I had to 
watch the bank.” 

“ My pocket-book. Thickens!” 

“Yes, sir. I was just in time to knock that scoundrel 
over as he was throttling you. I’d come to meet the 
coach.” 

“Why, Thickens!” cried Bayle, flushing. “Ah, you 
grasping old miser ! W’hat ! turn thief?’ ’ 

The latter was to old Gemp, who saw the pocket-book 
passed, and made a hawk-like clutch at it, but his wrist 
was pinned by Bayle, who took the pocket-book and 
slipped it into his breast. 

“ It’s my papers — it’s writings— it’s ” 

His voice was drowned in a clamor that arose, as about 
twenty more people came hurrying in at the bank door, 
eager to make demands for their deposits. 

Sir Gordon grew pale, for there was not enough cash in 
the house to pay up the constant demand, and he had 
hoped that the ready payment of a great deal would quiet 
the run. 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


165 


The clamor increased, and it soon became evident that 
the dam had given way, and that nothing remained but to 
go on paying to the last penny in the bank, while there 
was every possibility of wreck and destruction following. 

“ Howd hard, neighbors,” cried Anderson; “Sir Gordon 
says it’s all right. Dixon’s ’ll pay.” 

“Dixon’s can’t pay,” shouted a voice. “ Hallam’s got 
everything, and the bank’s ruined.” 

There was a roar here, and the fire seemed to have been 
again applied to the tow. Thickens looked in despair at 
Bayle, and then with a quick movement locked the cash- 
drawer, and clapped the key in his pocket. The action 
was seen. There was a yell of fury from the crowd in 
front, and a dozen hands seized the clerk. 

Sir Gordon darted forward, this time without pistols, 
and hands and sticks were raised, when, in a voice of thun- 
der, Christie Bayle roared. 

“Stop!” 

There was an instant silence, for he had leaped upon the 
bank-counter. 

“ Stand back !” he said, “and act like Christian men, 
and not like wild beasts. Dixon’s bank is sound. Look 
here!” 

“It’s failed ! it’s failed!” cried a dozen voices. 

“ It has not failed,” shouted Bayle. “ Look here; I have 
been to London.” 

“ Yes. we know.” 

“To fetch twenty-one thousand pounds — my own prop- 
erty!” 

There was dead silence here. 

‘ ‘ Look, that is the money, all in new Bank of England 
notes.” 

He tore them out of the large pocket-book. 

“To show you my confidence in Dixon’s Bank and in 
Sir Gordon Bourne’s word, I deposit this sum with them, 
and open an account. Mr. Thickens, have the goodness to 
enter this to my credit; I’ll take a check-book when you 
are at liberty.” 

He passed the sheaf of rustling, fluttering, new crisp 
notes to the cashier, and then, caking Sir Gordon’s offered 
hand, leaped down inside the counter of the bank. 

“ There, Sir Gordon,” he said, with a smile, “ I hope the 
plague is stayed.” 

“ Christie Bayle,” whispered Sir Gordon, huskily, 
“ Heaven bless you ! I shall never forget this day !” 

Half an hour later the bank business was going on as 
usual, but the business of the past night and morning was 
more talked of than before. 


166 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

IN misery’s depths. 

On one of many visits to the gloomy, stone-built county 
jail where Hallam was waiting his trial, for all applications 
for the granting of bail had been set aside, Millicent had 
insisted upon going alone, but without avail. 

“ No, Miss Milly, you may insist as long as you like, but 
until I’m berried, I’m going to keep by you in trouble, and 
I shall go with you.” 

” But, Thibs— my dear, dear old Thibs,” cried Millicent, 
flinging her arms about her neck, “ don’t you see that you 
will be helping me by staying with Julie?” 

No, my dear, I don’t; and, God bless you! she’ll be as 
happy as can be with her grandpa killing slugs, as I wish 
all wicked people were the same, and could be killed out 
of the way.” 

” But, Thibs, I order you to stay!” 

“ And you may order, my dear, ” said Thisbe, stubbornly, 
“ You might order, and you might cut off my legs, and 
then I’d come crawling like the serpent in the Scripters, 
only I hope it would be to do good. ’ ’ 

” Oh, you make me angry with you, Thisbe. Haven’t I 
told you that Miss Heathery has been pressing to come 
this morning and I refused her?” 

” Why, of course you did, my dear,” replied Thisbe, [con- 
temptuously. “Nice one she’d be to go with you, and 
strengthen and comfort you ! Send her to your pa’s green- 
house to turn herself into a pot, and water the plants with 
warm- water, and crying all over, and perhaps she’d do 
some good, but to go over to Lindum! The idea! Poor 
little weak thing!” 

” But, Thisbe, can you not see that this is a visit that I 
ought to pay alone?” 

“No, miss.” 

“But it is: for my husband’s sake.” 

“Every good husband who had left his wife in such 
troubles as you’re in would be much obliged to an old serv- 
ant for going with you all that long journey. There, miss, 
once for all; you may go alone if you like, but I shall 
follow you and keep close to you all the time, and sit down 
at the prison-gate.” 

“Oh, hush, Thibs!” cried Millicent, with a spasm of pain 
convulsing her features. 

“Yes, miss, I understand. And now I’m going. I 
sha’n’t speak a word to you, I sha’n’t even look at you, 
but be just as if I was a nothing; and all the same I’m 
there ready for you to hear, and be a comfort in my poor 


THIS MAN'S WIFE, 


167 


way, so that you may lean on me as much as you like, 
and, please God, bring us all well out of our troubles. 
Amen!” 

Poor Thisbe’s words were inconsequent, but they were 
sincere, and she followed her mistress to the coach, and 
then through the hilly streets of the old town, and finally, 
as she had suggested, seated herself upon a stone at the 
prison-gates while her mistress went in. 

The sound of lock and bolt chilled Millicent; the aspect 
of the gloomy, high-walled inclosure, with the loose bricks 
piled on the top to show where the wall had been tampered 
with, and to hinder escape, the very aspect, too, of the 
governor’s house, with its barred windows to keep prison- 
ers out, as the walls were to keep them in— a cage 'within 
a cage— made her heart sink, and when, after traversing 
stone passages, and hearing doors locked and unlocked, 
she found herself in the presence of her husband, her brain 
reeled, a mist came before her eyes, and for awhile her 
tongue refused to utter the words she longed to speak. 

‘‘Humph!” said Hallam, roughly. “You don’t seem 
very glad to see me.” 

Her reproachful eyes gave him the lie; and, looking 
pale, anxious, and terribly careworn, he began to pace the 
fioor. 

The careful arrangement of the hair, the gentlemanly 
look, seemed to have given place to a sullen, half- shrink- 
ing mien, and it was plain to see how confinement and 
mental anxiety had told upon him. 

In a few minutes, though, he had thrown off a great 
deal of this, and spoke eagerly to his wife, who, while ten- 
der and sympathetic in word and look, seemed ever ready 
to spur him on to some effort to free himself from the 
clinging stain*. 

She had done this from the very first. Cast down with a 
feeling of degradation and sorrow, when the arrest had 
been made, she had, as we know, recoiled. 

She had made every effort possible ; had gone to her hus- 
band for advice and counsel, and had ended at his wish by 
taking the money Miss Heathery offered, to pay a good at- 
torney to conduct his case; but on the first hearing she 
was informed by ihe lawyer that a gentleman was down 
from town, a barrister of some eminence, who said that he 
had been instructed to defend Mr. Hallam, and he declined 
to give any further information. 

The despair that came over Millicent was terrible to wit- 
ness; but she mastered these fits of despondency by force 
of will and the feverish energy with which she set to work. 
She visited Hallam, questioning, asking advice, instruc- 
tion, and bidding him to try to see his way out ot the 


168 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


difficulty, till he grew morose and sullen, and seemed to 
find special pleasure in telling her that it was “ all the 
work of that parson.” 

In her feverish state, in the despair with which she had 
bidden herself do her duty to her wronged, her injured 
husband, she took all this as fact, and, shutting herself up 
at Miss Heathery’s, refused to read the letters Bayle sent 
to her, or to give him an interview. 

It was as if a savage spirit of hate and revenge had 
taken possession of her; and with blind determination she 
went on her way, praying for strength to make her wor- 
thy of the task of defending her injured husband, and for 
the overthrow of the cruel enemies who were fighting to 
work his ruin. 

And now she was having the last interview with Hal- 
1am, for the authorities had interfered, she had had so 
much latitude, and he had given her certain instructions 
which made her start. 

“Go to him?” she said, looking up wonderingly. 

” Yes, of course,” he said, sharply; “ do you wish me to 
lose the slightest chance of getting off?” 

“But, Robert, dear,” she said, innocently, but with the 
energy that pervaded her speaking, “ why not go bravely 
to your trial? The truth must prevail. ” 

“Oh, yes,” he said, cynically; “it is a way it has in 
courts of law.” 

“Don't speak like that, love. I want you to hold your 
head up bravely in the face of your detractors, to show 
how you have been deceived and injured, that this man 
Crellock, whom you have helped, has proved a villain— de- 
ceiving, robbing, and shamefully treating y^ou.” 

“Yes,” he said; “ I should like to show all that.” 

“ Then don’t send me to Sir Gordon. I feel that there is 
no mercy to be expected from either him or Mr. Bayle. 
They both hate you.” 

“Most cordially, dear. By all that’s wearisome, I 
wish they would let me have a cigar here.” 

“No, no; think of what you are telling me to do,” she 
cried, eagerly, as she saw him wandering from the purpose 
in hand. “You say I must go to Sir Gordon?” 

“Yes. Don’t say it outright, but give him to under- 
stand that if he will throw up this prosecution of his, it 
will be better for the bank. That I can give such informa- 
tion as will pay them.’’ 

“ You know so much about Stephen Crellock?” she said, 
quickly. 

“ Yes; I can recover a great deal, I am sure.” 

“And I am to show him how cruelly he has wronged 
you?” " ^ 




mis MAN^S WIFE. 


169 


“ Yes, of course.” 

“ You desire me to do this — you will not trust to your 
innocence, and the efforts of the counsel?” 

“ Do you want to drive me mad with your questions?” 
he cried, savagely. “ If you decline to go, my lawyer shall 
see Sir Gordon.” 

“Eobert!” she said, reproachfully, but with the sweet 
gentleness of her pitying love for her husband, irritated, 
and beyond control of self in his trouble, apparent in her 
words. 

“Well, why do you talk so and hesitate?”' he cried, 
petulantly. 

“ I will go, dear,” she said, cheerfully, “ and I wull plead 
your cause to the uttermost.” 

“Yes, of course. It will be better that you should go. 
He likes you, Millicent; he alwaiys did like you, and I dare 
say he will listen to you. I don’t know but what it might 
be wise to knock under to Bayle. But no: I hate that fel- 
low. I always did from the first. Well, leave that now. 
See Sir Gordon ; tell him what I say, that it will be best 
for the bank. You’ll win. Hang it, Millicent, I could not 
bear this trial; it would kill me.” 

“Eobert!” 

“ Ah, well, I’m not going to die yet, and it would be very 
sad for rny handsome little wife to be left a widow if they 
hang me, or to exist with a live husband serving one-an di- 
twenty years in the bush.” 

“Eobert, you will break my heart if you speak like 
that,” panted Millicent. 

“Ah, well, we must not do that,” he cried, laughingly. 
“Look here, though; this barrister who is to defend me, 
I know him— Granton, Q. C. Did your father instruct 
him?” 

“No; he could not. Eobert, we are frightfully poor.” 

“So am I now,” he said, “thanks to my enemies, but 
we’ll get through. But who has instructed him, then?” 

“ I cannot tell, dear.” 

“ I see it all,” he said; “ it’s a plan of the enemy. Thej^ 
employ their own man, and he will sell me, bound hand 
and foot, to the Philistines.” 

“ Oh, Eobert, surely no one would be so base.” 

“I don’t know,” he said. “ They want to win. It’s Sir 
Gordon’s doing. No, it’s Christie Bayle. I’d lay a thou- 
sand pounds he has paid the fellow’s fees.” 

‘ ‘ Then, Eobert, you will not trust him ; you will refuse 
to let him defend you. Husband, my brave, true, inno- 
cent husband,” she cried, with her paleface flushing, “de- 
fend yourself.” 


170 


.THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


“Hush! To Sir Gordon at once. Say everything. I 
must be had out of this, Milly. I cannot stand my trial.” 

She could only nod her acquiescence, for a jailer had en- 
tered to announce that the visit was at an end. 

Then, as if in a dream, confused, troubled in spirit, and 
hardly seeing her way for the mist before her eyes, Milli- 
cent Hallam followed the jailer back along the white stone 
passages and through the clanging gates, to be shut out of 
the prison and remain in a dream of misery and troubled 
thought, conscious of only one thing, and that one that a 
gentle hand had taken her by the arm and led her back to 
where they waited for the conveyance to take them home. 

“ These handsome men; these handsome men!” sighed 
Thibs, as she sat by Julia’s bed that night, tired with her 
journey, but reluctant to go to her own resting-place — a 
mattress upon the floor. “ Oh, how I wish sometimes we 
were back at the old house, and me scolding and stubborn 
with poor old missus, and in my tantrums from morning 
to night. Ah! those were happy days.” 

Thisbe shook her head, and rocked herself to and fro, 
and sighed and sighed again. 

“ My old kitchen, and my old back door, and the big 
dust-hole! What a house it was, and how happy we used 
to be! Ah, if we could only change right back and be 
there once more, and Miss Milly not married to no hand- 
some scamp! Ah! and he is. Miss Milly may say what 
she likes, and try to believe he isn’t. He is a scamp, and 
I wish she had never seen his handsome face, and we were 

all back again, and then Oh! oh! oh! oh!” cried 

hard, stubborn Thisbe as she sank upon her knees by the 
child's bedside, sobbing gently and with the tears running 
down her cheeks, “and then there wouldn’t be no you. 
Bless you! bless you! bless you!” 

She kissed the child as a butterfly might settle on a 
flower, so tender was her love, so great her love, so great 
lier fear of disturbing the little one’s rest. 

“Oh, dear me, dear me!” she said, rising and wiping 
the tears from her hard face and eyes; “well, there’s 
whites and blacks, and ups and downs, and pleasures and 
pains, and I don’t know what to say— except mv prayers; 
and the Lord knows what’s best for us after all.’"’ 

Ten minutes after, poor Thisbe was sleeping peacefully, 
while, with burning brow, Millicent was pacing her bed- 
room, thinking of the morrow’s interview with Sir Gor- 
don Bourne. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


171 


CHAPTEE XVII. 

MR. GEMP IS CURIOUS. 

“ I know’d— I know’d it all along,” said old Gemp to his 
friends, for the excitement of his loss seemed now to have 
acted in an opposite direction and to be giving him strength. 
” I know’d he couldn’t be living at that rate unless things 
was going wrong. What did the magistrates say?” 

” Said it was a black case, and committed him for trial,” 
replied Gorringe the tailor. ‘‘Ah, I don’t say that clothes 
is everything, Mr. Gemp, but a well-made suit makes a 
gentleman of a man, and you never heard of Mr. Thickens 
doing aught amiss.” 

‘‘Nor me either— eh, Gorringe? and you’ve made my 
clothes ever since you’ve been in business.” 

The tailor looked with disgust at his neighbor’s shabby, 
well-worn garments, and remained silent. 

‘‘ I’d have been in the court mysen, Gorringe, on’y old 
Luttrell said he wouldn’t be answerable for my life if I 
got excited again, and I don’t want to die yet, neighbor; 
there’s a deal for me to see to in this world.” 

‘‘Got your money, haven’t you?” 

“ Ye-es, I’ve got my money, and it’s put away safe, but 
I wanted my deeds— my writings. I’ve lost by that scoun- 
drel, horribly.” 

“Ah! well, it might have been worse,” said Gorringe, 
giving a snip with his scissors that made Gemp start as 
if it were his own well-frayed thread of life being cut 
through. 

“ Oh, of course it might have been worse, but a lot of us 
have lost — eh, neighbor?” 

“ Dixon’s and Sir Gordon have come down very hand- 
some over it,” said Gorringe, who was designing a gar- 
ment, as he called it, with a piece of French chalk. 

“ And the parson,” said Gemp; “ only to think of it— a 
parson, a curate, with one-and-twenty thousand pound in 
his pocket.” 

“ Ay, it came in handy,” said Gorringe. 

“Now, where did he get that money, eh? It’s a won- 
derful sight for a man like him,” said Gemp, with a sus- 
picious look. 

“ London. I heerd tell that he said he had been to Lon- 
don to get it.” 

“ Ay, he said so,” cried Gemp, shaking his head, “but it 
looks suspicious, mun. Here was he, hand and glove 
Avith the Hallams, always at their house and mixed up 
like, I want to know Avhere he got that money. I say. 


172 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


sir, that a curate with twenty thousand pounds of his o<vn 
is a sort o’ monster as ought to be leveled down.” 

The tailor pushed up his glasses to the roots of his hair, 
and left off his work to hold up his shears menacingly at 
his crony. 

“ Gemp, old man,” he said, “ I would not be such a can- 
tankerous, suspicious old magpie as you for a hundred 
pounds; and look here, if you’re going to pull buttons off 
the back o’ parson’s coat, go and do it somewhere else, and 
not in my shop.” 

” Oh, you needn’t be so up,” said Gemp. “Look here,” 
he cried, pointing straight at his friend, “ what did Thick- 
ens say about the writings?” 

“Spoke fair as a man could speak,” said Gorringe, re- 
suming his architectural designs in chalk and cloth; “ said 
he felt uncomfortable about the matter first when he saw 
Hallam give a package to a man named Crellock — chap 
who often come down to see him ; that he was suspicious 
like that for two years, but never had an opportunity of 
doing more than be doubtful till just lately.” 

“ Why didn’t he speak out to a friend— say to a man 
like me?"” 

“Because, I’m telling you, it was only suspicion. Hal- 
lam managed the thing very artfully, and threw dust in 
Thickens’ eyes ; but last of all he see his way clear, and 
went and told parson. And just then Sir Gordon were 
suspicious too, and had got something to go upon, and 
they nabbed my gentleman just as he was going away.” 

“ And do you believe all this?” cried Gemp. 

“ To be sure I do. Don’t you?” 

“ Tchah ! I’m afraid they’re all in it. ” 

“Ah! well, I’m not; and, as we’ve nothing to lose, I 
don’t care.” 

“ How did Hallam look?” 

“Very white; and, my word! he did give parson a look 
when he was called up to give his evidence. He looked 
black at Thickens and at Sir Gordon, but he seemed regu- 
larly savage with parson.” 

“ Ah, to be sure 1” cried Gemp. “ What did I say about 
being thick with parson? It’s my belief that if all had 
their deserts parson would be standing in the dock along- 
side o’ Hallam.” 

“And it’s my belief, Gemp, that you’re about the silliest 
owd maulkin that ever stepped! There, I won’t quarrel 
with thee. Parson? Pshaw!” 

“Well, thou’lt see, man, thou’lt see! Committed for 
trial, eh? And how about the other fellow?” 

“What, Crellock? Oh, they’ve got him too. He came 
smelling after Hallam, who was like a decoy -bird to him, 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


m 

Wanted to see him in the cage; and they let him see Hal- 
1am, and ” 

“Ah, I heard that Hallam told the constable Crellock 
was worse than he, and they took him too. Yes, I heard 
that. Halloo! here comes Hallam’s maid — doctor’s owd 
lass, Thisbe. Let’s get a word wi’ her.” 

^ Gemp shuffled out of the tailor’s shop, and made for 
Thisbe, who was coming down the street, with her head 
up and her nose in the air. 

“Mornin’, good-mornin’,” he said, with one of his most 
amiable grins. 

“ I didn’t say it wasn’t,” said Thisbe, sharply; and she 
went straight on to Miss Heathery’s, knocked sharply, and 
waited, gazing defiantly about the place the while. 

“Well, she’s a stinger, she is!” muttered Gemp, stand- 
ing scraping awaj^ at his face with his forefinger. “Do 
her good to be married, and hev some one with the rule 
over her. Humph ! she’s gone. Now what does she want 
there?” 

The answer was very simple, though it was full of mys- 
tery to Gemp. Thisbe wanted her mistress and the child, 
who had gone to Miss Heathery’s after dark, Millicent’s 
soul revolting against the idea of staying at the old home 
now that it was in the possession of Christie Bayle, her 
husband’s bitterest foe. 

The gossips were quite correct. Hallam had been exam- 
ined thrice before the county magistrates, and enough had 
been traced to prove that for a long time he had been 
speculating largely, losing, and making up his losses by 
pledging, at one particular bank, the valuable securities 
with which Dixon’s strong-room was charged. When one 
of these was wanted he pledged another and redeemed it, 
while altogether the losses were so heavy that, had not the 
old bank proprietors been very wealthy men, Dixon’s must 
have gone. 

“Now, where’s she a-going, neighbor?” said Gemp, 
scraping away at his stubbly face. “I don’t feel up to it 
like I did, but I shall have to see.” 

Gorringe peered through his glasses and the window at 
the figure in black that had just left Miss Heathery’s, 
leaning on Thisbe’s arm for a few moments, and then, as 
if by an effort, drawing herself up and walking alone. 

The day was lovely, the sky of the deepest blue ; the sun 
seemed to be brightening every corner of the whole town, 
and making the flowers blink and brighten, and the spar- 
rows that haunted the eaves to be in a state of the greatest 
excitement. King’s Castor had never looked more quaintly 



174 


THm MAN^S WIFE. 


yellow post-chaise outside, and the blue-jacketed post-boy, 
with his unnecessarily knotted whip, down to the vegeta- 
ble-stall at the corner of the market, where old Mrs. Dims 
sat on an ancient rush-bottomed chair, with her feet in a 
brown earthenware bread-pancheon to keep them dry. 

Mrs. Pinet’s flower-pots were so red that they seemed like 
the blossoms of her plants growing unnaturally beneath 
the leaves, and her window, and every one else’s panes, 
shone and glittered with the true country brilliancy in the 
morning sun. Even the grass looked green growing be- 
1 V een the cobble-stones — those pebbles that gave the town 
the aspect that, being essentially agricultural, the inhabit- 
ants had decided, out of compliment to their farm neigh- 
bors, to pave it with sheep’s kidneys. 

But there was one blot upon it — one ugly scar, where 
the yellow deal boards had been newly nailed up, and the 
walls and window-frames were blackened with smoke, and 
it was when passing these ruins of her home that Millicent 
Hallam first shuddered, and then drew herself up to walk 
firmly by. 

“Ah!” said Gorringe, making his shears click, “you 
would’nt feel happy if you didn’t know what was going on, 
would you, neighbor?” 

“Eh? Know? Of course not. It it hadn’t been for 
me looking after the bank where would you have all been, 
eh?” 

Gemp spoke savagely, and pointed at the tailor as if he 
were going to bore a hole in his chest. 

“Well, p’r’aps you did some good there. Master Gemp; 
but if you’d take my advice you’d go home, and keepyour- 
sen quiet. I wouldn’t get excited about nothing if I was 
you.” 

“Humph! No, you wouldn’t. Master Gorringe; but 
some folk is different to others,” said Gemp, talking away 
from the doorway, with his head outside, as he peered 
down the street. “Hey ! look at ’em now — the curiosity of 
these women -folk ! Here’s owd Mother Pinet with her neck 
stretched out ’er window, and Barton at the shop, and Cross 
at the Checkers, and Dawson the carrier, all got their heads 
out, staring after that woman. Now where’s she going, I 
wonder?” 

Old Gemp stumped back into the shop, shaving away at 
.his cheek. 

“ She can’t be going over to Lindum to see Hallam, be- 
cause she went yesterday.” 

The tailor -s shears clicked as a corner was taken out of a 
peice of cloth. 

“ She ain’t going up to the doctor’s, because he drove by 
half an hour ago with the owd lady.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


175 


Another click. 

“ Can’t be going for a walk. Wouldn’t go for a walk at 
a time like this. I’ve often wondered why folks do go for 
walks, Master Gorringe. I never did.” 

Click! 

“Nay, Master Gemp, you could always find enough to 
see and do in the town, eh?” 

“Plenty! plenty, man, plenty!— I’ve got it!” 

Eh?” 

“She’s going — Hallam’s wife, yonder — to see owd Sir 
Gordon, and beg HaDam off; and, look here, I wean’t hev 
it!” 

Gemp banged his stick down upon the counter in a way 
that made the cloth spread thereon rise in waves, and be- 
came very broad of speech here, though it was a matter of 
pride among the Castor people that they spoke the purest 
English in the country, and were not broad of utterance, 
like the people on the wolds, and “down in the ma’sh.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

APAINFULMEETING. 

Whether Gemp would have it or no, MiUicent Hallam 
was on her way to Sir Gordon’s quiet old-fashioned house 
on the North Road — a house that was a bit of a mystery to 
the Castor children, whose young brains were full of con- 
jecture as to what could be inside a place whose windows 
were blanks, and with nothing but a door to the road, and 
a high wall right and left to complete the blankness of the 
frontage. 

It ought to have been called the backage ; for Sir Gordon 
Bourne’s house was very pleasant on the other side, with a 
compact garden and fiowers blooming to brighten it— a 
garden in which he never walked. 

MiUicent Hallam pulled at the swinging handle of the 
bell at Sir Gordon’s door with the determination of one 
who has called to demand a right. 

The door was opened by a quiet-looking, middle-aged 
man in drab livery, whose brown hair and cocoa-nut fibery 
whiskers, joined to a swinging easy gait, suggested that 
he would not have been out of place on the deck of a vessel 
— an idea strengthened by an appearance on one side of 
his face, as if he were putting his tongue in his cheek. 

He drew back respectfully before MiUicent could say, 
“ Is Sir Gordon a.t home?” allowed her to pass, and then, 
as Thisbe followed her mistress, he gave her a very solemn 
wink, but without the vestige of a smile. 

Thisbe gave her shawl a violent snatch, as if it were 
armor that she was drawing over a weak spot ; but Tom 


176 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


Porter, Sir Gordon’s factotum, did not see it, for he was 
closing the door and thinking about how to hide the fact 
that his hands were marked with rouge, with which he 
had been polishing the plate when the bell rang. 

He led the way across the hall, which was so full of 
curiosities from all parts of the globe that it resernbled a 
museum, and opening a door at the end, ushered Millicent 
into Sir Gordon’s library, a neatly kept little room, with a 
good deal of the air of a captain’s cabin in its furnishing; 
telescopes, compasses, and charts hung here and there, in 
company with books of a maritime character, while one 
side of the place was taken up by a large glass case con- 
taining a model of “The Sea Dream schooner-yacht, the 
property of Gordon Bourne.” So said an inscription at 
the foot, engraved on a brass plate. 

Millicent remained standing with her veil down, while 
Tom Porter retired, closed the door, and r fter giving notice 
of the arrival went back into the hall, where Thisbe was 
standing in a very stern, uncompromising fashion. 

Sir Gordon’s man wanted to arrange his white cravat; 
but his fingers were red, and for the same reason he was 
debarred from pushing the Brutus on his head a little 
higher; so that, unable to rearrange his plumage, he had 
to let it go. 

He walked straight up to Thisbe, stared very hard at 
her, breathing to match, and then there was a low, deep 
growl heard, which bore some resemblance to “ How are 
you?” 

Thisbe was “ Nicely, thank you ” ; but she did not say it 
nicely ; it was snappish and short. 

Mr. Tom Porter did not seem to object to snappish short- 
ness, for he growled forth : 

* ‘ Come below V ’ and added : ‘ ‘ My pantry !” 

“ No, thank you,” was Thisbe’s reply, full of asperity. 

“ Won’t you take anything— biscuit?” 

“ No, I— thank —you, ” replied Thisbe, dividing her words 
very carefully ; and Tom Porter stood with his legs wide 
apart and stared. 

“I would ha’ been at sea if it hadn’t ha’ been for the 
trouble yonder,” he said, after a pause. 

“Ho!” 

Tom Porter raised his hand to scratch his head, but 
remembered in time, and turned it under his drab coat- tail. 

“Very sorry,” he said at last, without moving a muscle. 

“Thank you!” said Thisbe, sharply; and then— “You 
needn’t wait.” 

“Needn’t wait it is!” said Tom Porter, in a gruff growl; 
and giving one hand a sort of throw up toward his fore- 
head, and one leg a kick out. behind, he went off through a 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


177 


door, perfectly unconscious of the fact that Thisbe’s coun- 
tenance had unconsciously softened as she stood admiring 
the breadth of Tom Porter’s shoulders and the general 
solidity of his build. 

Meanwhile Millicent stood waiting until a well-known 
cough announced the coming of Sir Gordon, who entered 
the room, and with grave courtesy placed a chair for his 
visitor. 

“I expected you, Mrs. Hallam,” he said, with a voice 
full of sympathy ; and as he spoke he remained standing. 

Millicent raised her veil, looked at him with her handsome 
face contracted by mental pain, and with an angry, almost 
fierce, glow in her eyes. 

“ You expected rne?” she said, repeating his words with 
no particular emphasis or intonation. 

“Yes; I thought you would come to an old friend for 
help and counsel at a time like this. ’ ’ 

A passionate outburst was ready to rush forth; but Milli- 
ceiit restrained it, and said, coldly : 

“ My old friend, my father’s old friend.” 

“Yes,” he replied; “ I hope a very sincere old friend.” 

“ Then why is my poor injured husband in prison?” 

There was a fierce emphasis in the words that made Sir 
Gordon raise his brows. He looked at her wonderingly, 
as if he had not expected his visitor to take this line of ar- 
gument. 

Then he pointed again to a chair. 

“Will you not take a seat, Mrs. Hallam?” he said, 
gently. “ You have come to me, then, for help?” 

‘ ‘ No, ’ ’ she cried, ignoring his request. ‘ ‘ I have come for 
justice to my poor husband, who, for the faults of others, 
by the scheming of his enemies, is now lying in prison 
awaiting his trial.” 

Sir Gordon leaned his elbow on the chimney-piece, and 
with his finger-nails tapped the top of the black marble 
clock that ticked so steadily there. 

“You went over to Lindum yesterday to see Hallam?” 

“I did.” 

“ He requested >mu to come and see me?” 

“Yes; it was his wish, or ” 

“ You would not have come,” he said, with a sad smile 
upon his lips. 

“ No; I would have stood in the place where the injustice 
of men had placed me, and trusted to my own integrity 
and innocence for my acquittal.” 

Sir Gordon drew a long breath like a sigh of relief. He 
had been watching Millicent closely, as if he were suspicious 
either that she was playing a part, or had been biased by 
her husband. But the true loving trust and belief of the 


178 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


woman shone out in her countenance and rang in her 
words. True woman — true wife! Let the world say what 
it would, her place was by her husband, and in his defense 
she was ready to lay down her life. 

Sir Gordon sighed then with relief, for even now his old 
love for Millicent burned brightly. She had been his idol 
of womanly perfection, and he had felt, as it were, a con • 
traction about his heart as the suspicion crept in for a mo- 
ment that she was altered for the worse — changed by be- 
coming the wife of Robert Hallam. 

“ Mrs. Hallam— Millicent, my child, what am I to say to 
you?” he said at length. “How am I to speak without 
wounding you? I would not give you pain to add to that 
which you already suffer.” 

She looked at him angrily. His words seemed to her, in 
her overstrained anxiety, hypocritical and evasive. 

“I asked you why my husband is cast into prison for 
the crimes of others?” 

Sir Gordon gazed at her pityingly. 

“You do not answer,” she said. “Then tell me this — 
are you satisfied with the degradation he has already suf- 
fered? Is he now to be set free?” 

“Can you not spare me, Mrs. Hallam?” he said. “Will 
you not spare yourself?” 

“No; I cannot spare you. I cannot spare myself. My 
husband is helpless ; the fight against his enemies must be 
carried on by me,” 

“His enemies, Mrs. Hallam? Who are they? Himself 
and his companion.” 

“ You— that despicable creature who has professed to bo 
our friend, the companion of my child. I saw you planning 
it together — your wretched menial. Thickens.” 

Sir Gordon shook his head sadly. 

“ My dear Mrs. Hallam,” he said, “ you do us all an in- 
justice. Let us change this conversation. Believe me, I 
want to help you, your child, and your ruined parents.” 

Millicent started at the last words — ruined parents. 
There her ideas were obscured and wanting in the clear- 
ness with which she believed she saw the truth. But even 
the explanation of this seemed to come at last, and there 
was a scornful look in her eyes as she exclaimed ; 

“ I want no help. I want justice.” 

“Then what do you ask of me?” he said, coldly, as he 
felt the impossibility of argument at such a time. 

“ My husband’s freedom, your apology, and declaration 
to the whole world that he has been falsely charged. You 
can do no more. It is impossible to wipe out this disgrace. ’ ’ 

He made a couple of steps toward her, and took her cold 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 179 

hands in his, raised them to his lips with tender reverence, 
and kissed them. 

“ Millicent, my child,” he said, with his voice sounding 
very deep and soft, “do not blame me. My position was 
forced upon me, and you do not know the sacrifice it has 
cost me as I thought of you— the sacrifice it will be to Mr. 
Dixon and mjself to repair the losses we have sustained.” 

She snatched her hands from his, and her eyes flashed 
with anger. 

Her rage was hut of a few moments’ duration. Then 
she had flung herself upon her knees at his feet, and, with 
clasped hands and streaming eyes, sobbed forth: 

“ I am mad. I am mad. I know not what I say. Sir 
Gordon, dear Sir Gordon, help us. It is not true. He is 
innocent. My noble husband could not have descended to 
such baseness. Sir Gordon, save him ! save him — my poor 
child’s father — my husband, whom I love so well. You do 
not answer. You do not heed my words. Is man so cruel, 
then, to the unfortunate? Can you so treat the girl who 
reverenced you as a child— the woman you said you loved ! 
Man, man!” she cried, passionately, “can you not see that 
my heart is breaking? and yet you, who by a wmrd could 
save him, now look on and coldly turn a deaf ear to my 
prayers. Oh, fool I fool ! fool ! that I was to think that 
help could come from man. God, help me now, or else in 
thy mercy let mo die!” 

As she spoke these last words, she threw her head back 
and raised her clasped hands in passionate appeal, while 
Sir Gordon’s lips moved as he repeated the first portion of 
her prayer, and then stayed, and stood gazing down upon 
the agonized face. 

“Millicent,” he said, at last, as he raised her from where 
she knelt, and almost placed her in an easy-chair, where 
she subsided, weak and helpless almost as a child, “ listen 
to me.” 

He paused to' clear his voice, which sounded very husky. 
Then, continuing: 

“ For your sake — for the sake of your innocent child, I 
promise that on the part of Mr. Dixon and myself there 
shall be no harsh treatment, no persecution. Your hus- 
band shall have justice.” 

“That is all I ask,” cried Millicent, starting forward. 
“Justice, only justice; for he is innocent.” 

“My poor girl!” said Sir Gordon, warmly; “there,” he 
cried, with a pitying smile, “you see I speak to you as if 
the past six or seven years had not glided away.” 

“Yes, yes,” she said, clinging to his hand, “forget 
them, and speak as my dear old friend.” 

“I will,” he said, firmly. “And believe me, Millicent, 


180 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


if it were a question merely of the money — my money that 
I have lost — I would forgive your husband.” 

“ Forgive ” 

“ I would ignore his defalcation for your sake; but I am 
not a free agent in a case like this. You do not under- 
stand.” 

‘‘No, no,” she said, piteously, “everything is contained 
in one thought to me. They have taken my poor husband 
and treated him as if a thief.” 

“Listen, my child,” continued Sir Gordon. “I found 
that the valuable documents of scores of the customers of 
an old bank had been taken away. They were in your 
husband’s charge.” 

“ Yes, but he says it can all be explained.” 

Sir Gordon paused, tightening his lips, and a few indig- 
nant words trembled on the balance ; but he spared the 
suffering woman’s bleeding heart, and continued gravely : 

“I was bound in honor to consult with my partner at 
once, and the result you know.” 

“Yes; he was arrested. You, you. Sir Gordon, gave 
the order.” 

“Yes,” he said, gravely; “had I not, he would have 
been beaten and trampled to death by the maddened 
crowd. Millicent Hallam, be just in your anger. I saved 
his life. ’ ’ 

“ Better death than dishonor,” she cried, passionately. 

“Amen!” he responded; and in imagination he saw be- 
fore him the convict’s cell, and went onpioturing a horror 
from which he turned shuddering away. 

“Come,” he said, “be sure of justice, my child. And 
now what can I do to help you? Money you must want.” 

“ No,” she said, drearily. 

“Well, means to procure good counsel for your hus- 
band’s defense.” 

‘ ‘ He said that you must have procured the counsel he 
already has.” 

“I? No, my child; no, I did not even think of such a 
thing. How could I?” 

“ Who, then, has paid fees to this man who has been to 
my husband?” 

“ I do not know. I cannot say.” 

Millicent rose heavily, her eyes wandering, her face 
deadly white. 

‘ ‘ I can do no more here, ’ ’ she said, wringing her hands 
and passing one over the other in a weak, helpless way; 
and as Sir Gordon watched her, he saw a faint smile come 
over her pinched features. She was gazing down at her 
wedding-ring, which seemed during the past few weeks to 
have begun to hang loosely on her finger. She raised it 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


181 


reverently to her lips, and kissed it in a rapt, absent way, 
gazing round at last as if wondering why she was there. 

“Justice! You have promised justice,” she cried, sud- 
denly, with a mental light irradiating her face. “ I know 
I may trust you.” 

“You may,” he said, reverently, for this woman’s love 
seemed to inspire him with awe. 

“And you will forgive me — all I have said?” she whis- 
pered. 

“Forgive you?” he said, taking her hand and speaking 
gravely. “Millicent Hallam has no truer servant and 
friend than Gordon Bourne.” 

* * 

“No truer servant and friend than Gordon Bourne,” he 
repeated, as he returned to his room after seeing the suf- 
fering wife to the door. “Ah! how Heaven’s gifts are 
cast away here and there. What would my life have 
been if blessed by the love of this man’s wife?” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE VERDICT. 

“ How is she now, dear Mrs. Luttrell?-— how is she now?” 

Miss Heathery looked up from out of the handkerchief 
in which her "face was being constantly buried, and it 
would have been hard to say which was the redder, eyes 
or nose. 

Poor Mrs. Luttrell, who had come trembling down from 
the bedroom, caught at her friend’s arm, and seemed 
to stay herself by it, as she said, piteously : 

“ I can’t bear it, my dear, I can’t bear it. I was obliged 
to come down for a few minutes.” 

“My poor dear,” whispered little Miss Heathery, who, 
excluded from the bedroom, passed her time in hot water 
that she shed, and that she used to make the universal 
panacea for woe — a cup of tea — one she administered to all 
in turn. 

“You seem so overcome, you poor dear,” she whispered; 
and helping Mrs. Luttrell to the couch, she poured out 
a cup of tea for her with kindliest intent, but the trem- 
bling mother waved it aside. 

“She begged me so, my dear, I was obliged to come out 
of the room. The doctor says it would be madness ; and 
it is all Thisbe and he can do to keep her lying down. 
What am I to say to you for giving you all this trouble?” 

The tears were running fast down Miss Heathery’s yel- 
low cheeks as she took Mrs. Luttrell’ s gray head to her 
bony breast. 

“ Don’t ! don’t ! don’t” she sobbed. “What have I ever 


182 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


done that you should only think me a fine- weather friend? 
If I could only tell you how glad I am to be able to help 
dear Millicent, but I can’t.” 

“Heaven bless you!” whispered Mrs. Luttrell, clinging 
to her — glad to cling to some one in her distress; “you 
have been a good friend indeed I” 

Just then the stairs creaked slightly, and Thisbe, look- 
ing very hard and p'im, came into the room. 

“How is she, Thisbe?” cried Miss Heathery, in a quick 
whisper. 

Thisbe shook her head. 

‘ ‘ Seems to be dozing a little now, miss ; but she keeps 
asking for the news. ” 

“Poor dear! poor dear!” sobbed Miss Heathery, with 
more tears running slowly down her face to such an ex- 
tent that if there had been any one to notice, he or she 
would have wondered where they all came from, and have 
then set it down to the tea. 

“Sit down, Thisbe,” sighed Mrs. Luttrell; “you must 
be worn out. ’ ’ 

“Poor soul! yes,” said Miss Heathery; and pouring out 
a fresh cup, she took it to where Thisbe— who had not been 
to bed for a week, watching, as she had been, by Milli- 
cent’s couch— was sitting on the edge of a chair. 

“There, drink that, Thisbe,” said Miss Heathery. 
“You’re a good, good soul.” 

As she bent forward and kissed the hard- looking wom- 
an’s face, Thisbe stared half wonderingly at her and took 
the cup. Then her hard face began to work ; she tried to 
sip a. little tea, choked, set down the cup, and hurried sob- 
bing from the room. 

For Millicent Hallam, strong in her determination to 
help her husband, had had to lean on Thisbe ’s arm as 
they returned from Sir Gordon’s house that day. When 
she reached Miss Heathery’s house she was compelled to 
lie down on the couch. An hour later she began to talk 
wildly, and when her father was hastily summoned she 
was in a high state of fever. 

This, with intervals of delirium and calmness, had gone 
on ever since, up to the day of Robert Hallam’s trial. 

On the previous night, as Millicent lay holding her child 
to her breast, the little thing having been brought at her 
wish, to bound to the bedside and bury her flushed, half- 
frightened face in her mother’s bosom, a soft tap had come 
to the door below. 

Millicent’s hearing, during the intervals of the fever 
and delirium, was preternaturally keen, and she turned to 
her mother. 

“It is Mr. Baylel” she said, in a hoarse whisper. “I 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 183 

know now. I understand all. It is to-morrow. I want 
to know. Ask him.” 

” Ask him what, my darling? But pray be calm. Re- 
member what your father said.” 

” Yes, yes, I remember; but ask him. No; of course, he 
must be there. Tell Christie Bayle to come to me directly 
it is over, and bring my husband. Directly, mind. You 
will tell him?” 

‘‘Yes, yes, my darling,” said Mrs. Luttrell, with her 
face working as she moved toward the door. 

“ Stop, mother!” cried Millicent. ‘‘Hush I lie still, Julie; 
mamma is not cross with you. Mother, tell Christie Bayle 
to bring me the news of the trial the moment it is over. I 
can trust him. He will,” she said to herself with a smile 
as her mother left the room, and delivered the message to 
him who was below. 

He left soon after, sick at heart, to join Sir Gordon, 
and together they took their places in the coach, the only 
words that passed being: 

“How is she, Bayle?” 

“In the Great Physician’s hands,” was the reply. 
“ Man’s skill is nothing here.” 

And she of whom they spoke lay listening to the cheery 
notes of the guard’s horn, the trampling of the horses, and 
the rattle of the wheels, as the coach rolled away, with 
James Thickens outside, thinking of the horrors of passing 
the night in a strange bed, in a strange town, and wish- 
ing the troubles of this case of Hallam’s at an end. 

The next morning Millicent Hallam insisted upon rising 
and dressing, to go over to Lindum and be present at the 
trial. 

All opposition only irritated her, and at last Thisbe was 
summoned to the room. 

“ I shall be just outside,” whispered the doctor. “ It is 
better than fighting against her.” 

In less than five minutes he was once more by his child’s 
side, trying to bring her back from the fainting-fit in 
which she had fallen back upon the bed; for she had 
learned her weakness, and her utter impotence to take 
such a journey upon an errand like that. 

And so the weary day crept on, with the delirium some- 
times seizing upon the tottering brain and then a time of 
comparative coolness supervening. 

Dr. Luttrell looked serious, and told himself that he was 
in doubt. 

“ The bad news will kill her,” he said to himself, as he 
went outside to walk up and down Miss Heathery’s 
garden, which was fifteen feet long and twelve feet wide, 
“ but very secluded,” as its owner often said. 


184 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


There, with bare head and wrinkled brow, the doctor 
walked up and down, stopping, from habit, now and then 
to pinch off a dead leaf, or give a twist to one of the scarlet 
runners that had slipped from its string. 

The night at last; and the doctor was sitting by the bed- 
side, having sent Mrs. Luttrell down, and then Thisbe, 
both utterly worn-out and unhinged. 

Millicent was, as Thisbe had said, dozing ; but the fever 
was high, and Dr. Luttrell shook his gray head. 

“ Who’d have thought, my poor flower,” he said, “ that 
your young life would be blighted like this !’ ’ 

He could hardly bear his suffering, and rising from his 
chair he stole softly into the back room where Julia was 
sleeping calmly, the terrible trouble affecting her young 
heart only for the minute, and then passing away. 

The old man bent down and kissed the sleeping face, and, 
as her custom was, Julia’s little arms went softly up and 
clasped the neck of him who pressed her soft cheek, and 
fell away again, heavy with sleep. 

” He will come and tell me the truth.” 

The words fell clearly on the doctor’s ear as he was re- 
entering the sick-room, but Millicent lay apparently sound 
asleep in the little white dimity-hung bed of Miss Heath- 
ery’s best room, while the soft murmur of voices came 
from below. 

^ sjc >ie * * - * 

Millicent’ s words were those of truth, for the moment 
the trial was over Christie Bayle had rushed out and 
sprung into the post-chaise he had had in waiting, and for 
which changes of hors.es were harnessed at the three towns 
they would have to pass through to reach King’s Castor, 
over thirty miles away; and as fast as horses urged by 
man could go over the rough cross-road that post-chaise 
Avas being hurried along. 

The night was settling down dark as the first pair of 
steaming horses were taken out, and a couple of country 
candles Avere lit in the battered lamps. Then on and on, 
up-hill slowly, down the far slope at a good gallop, Avith the 
chaise dancing and swaying about on its C-springs, and 
time after time the whole affair nearly being thrown over 
upon its side. 

” It’s too dark to go fast, sir,” remonstrated the wheeler 
post-boy, as Bayle leaned his head out of the window to 
urge him on. 

“Ten shillings apiece, man. It’s for life or death,” cried 
Bayle ; and the whips cracked, and the horses plunged into 
their collars, as the hedges on either side seemed to fly by 
like a couple of blurred lines. 

******»!« 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


186 


“I must get up now, father,” said Millicent, suddenly. 

“My child, no; it is impossible. You remember this 
morning?” 

“My dressing-gown,” she said, in a low, decided voice. 
“ Thisbe will carry me down.” 

“No, no,” said Dr. Luttrell, decidedly. “You must 
obey me, child.” 

“Dear father,” she whispered, “if I lie here in the 
agony of suspense I shall die. I must go down.” 

“ But why, my child?” 

“ Why?” she said. “ Do you think I could bear anyone 
else to hear his news but me?” 

It was in vain to object, and in the belief that he was 
doing more wisely by giving way. Dr. Luttrell summoned 
Thisbe, and with Mrs. Luttrell’ s help the suffering woman 
was partially dressed and borne down to the sitting-room. 
She bore the change wonderfully, and lay there very still 
and patient waiting for the next two hours. The fever had 
greatly abated, and she lay listening, her eyes half closed, 
as if in the full confidence that the news for which she lin- 
gered would not be long. 

Thisbe and Miss Heathery had stolen out into the kitchen 
to sit and talk in whispers as, one by one, the last sounds 
in the town died out. The shutters here and there had 
long been rattled up. The letter-carriers from the villages 
round had all come in, and only a footfall now and then 
broke the silence of the little town. 

Ten o’clock had struck, and the doctor and Mrs. Lut- 
trell exchanged glances, the former encouraging his wife 
with a nod, for Millicent seemed to be asleep. A quarter 
past ten was chimed by the rickety clock in the old stone 
tower, and the only place now where there was any sign 
of business was up at the George, where lamps burned 
inside and out, and the hostlers b^i’ought out two pairs of 
well-clothed horses ready for the coach that would soon 
be through. By and by there was the rattle of wheels and 
the cheery notes of a horn ; but they did not wake Milli- 
cent, who still seemed to sleep, while there was a little 
noise of trampling horses, the banging of coach doors, 
a few shouts, a cheery “ All right!” and then the horses 
went off at a trot, the wheels rattled, and the lamps of the 
mail shone through the drawn-down blind Then the 
sounds died away ; all was still, and the, clock chimed 
half- past. As the last tones throbbed and hummed in the 
still night air, Millicent suddenly stirred, sat up quickly, 
and pressed back her hair from her face. 

“ Help me ! The chair I” she said, hoarsely. 

“Yes,” said the doctor, in answer to Mrs. Luttrell’s 
look, and with very little aid Millicent left the couch, 


186 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


gathered her dressing-gown round her, and sat back listen- 
ing. 

“He will soon be here,” she said, softly, and she bowed 
her head upon her breast. 

She was right; for the horses were tearing over the 
ground in the last mile of the last stage, with Christie 
Bayle almost as breathless, as he sat back pale with excite- 
ment, and trembling for the news he had to impart. At 
the end of the trial, and in his desire to keep his word, all 
had seemed strange and confused. He could feel nothing 
but that he had to get back to King’s Castor and tell her 
all. It was her command. But now that he was rapidly 
nearing home, the horror of his position began to weigh 
him down, and he felt ready to shrink from his duty ; but 
all the time there was a sensation as if something was 
urging him on and on, fast as the horses seemed to fly. 

The miles had seemed leagues before. This last seemed 
not a quarter its length; for there was the mill, there 
Thickens’ cottage, there the great draper’s, the market- 
place, the George, before which the horses were checked, 
covered with foam. 

With the feeling still upon him that he could not bear 
this news, and that it should have been brought by Sir 
Gordon, who had refused to come, he ran across to Miss 
Heathery’s house, and when he reached the door it was 
opened. He stepped in, and it was closed by Mrs. Luttrell, 
who was trembling like a leaf. 

“ Come here! quick!” 

Bayle knew and yet did not recognize the voice, it was so 
changed; but, as in a dream, he went past the little can- 
dlestick on the passage bracket, and in at the open parlor 
door, where the light of the shaded globe-lamp fell upon 
Millicent’s pale face. 

“Father! mother!” she said, quickly. “ Leave us. I 
must hear the news alone!” 

The doctor’s eyes sought Bayle’s; but his face was con- 
tracted, as he stood there, hat and cloak in hand, pale as if 
from a sick-bed, and his eyes closed. 

Then he and Millicent were alone, and, as if stung by 
some agonizing mental pang, he said, hoarsely : 

“No, no! Your father— mother ! Let me tell them!” 

Millicent rose slowly, and laid her hand upon his arm. 

“You bear me news of my husband,” she said, in an un- 
naturally calm voice. ‘ ‘ I know it is the worst !” 

He made no reply, but looked at her beseechingly. 

“I can bear it now^” she said, shivering like one whom 
pain had ended by numbing against further agony. “ I see 
it is the worst ; he is condemned !’ ’ 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 187 

There was a faint smile upon her lips as he caught her 
hands in his. 

‘'You forced me to this,” he said, hoarsely, “and you 
will hate me more for giving you this pain.” 

“ No,” she said, speaking in the same unnaturally calm, 
strained manner — “no; for I have misjudged you, Christie 
Bayle. Boy and man, you were always true to me. And 
— and — he is condemned?” 

His eyes alone spoke; and then she tottered as if she 
would have fallen, but he caught her and placed her in the 
chair. 

“Yes, I know — I knew it must be,” she said, with her 
eyes half closed. “ Every one will know now!” 

“ Let me call your father in?” he whispered. 

“ No, not yet. I have something to say, ” she murmured, 
almost in a whisper. “ If— I die— my little child— Christie 
Bayle? She— she loves you I” 

Millicent Hallam’s eyes filled up the gaps in her feeble 
speech, and Christie Bayle read her wish as if it had been 
sounded trumpet- tongued in his ears. 

“Yes, I understand. I will,” he said, in a voice that 
was more convincing than if he had spoken on oath. 

:)c * * * * sj! * 

By that time the news which the post-boys had caught as 
it ran from lip to lip, before Christie Bayle could force his 
way through the crowd at Lindum Assize Court, was flash- 
ing, as such news can fiash through a little inquisitive 
town like Castor, and almost at the same moment as Chris- 
tie Bayle made his promise, old Gemp stumbled into Gor- 
ringe’s shop to point at him and pant out: 

“Transportation for life!” 


o- 


BOOK III. 

AFTER TWELVE YEARS. 

CHAPTER I. 

BACK FROM A VOYAGE. 

Why, my dear Sir Gordon, I am glad to see you back 
again. You look brown and hearty, and not a day older. ” 
“Don’t— don’t shake quite so hard, my dear Bayle. I 
like it, but it hurts. Little gouty in that hand, you see.” 
“Well, I’ll be careful. I am glad you came.” 

“ That’s right, that’s right. Come down to my club and 


188 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


dine, and we’]l have a long talk; and— er — don’t take any 
notice of the jokes if you hear any.” 

“Jokes?” 

“ Ye — es. The men have a way there — the old fellows — 
of calling me ‘Laurel’ and ‘Yew’ and the ‘Evergreen,’ 
You see, I look well and robust for my age.” 

“Not a bit. Sir Gordon. You certainly seem younger, 
though, than ever.” 

“ So do you, Bayle; so do you. Why, you must be ” 

“Forty -two, Sir Gordon. Getting an old man, you see.” 

“Forty! Pooh! what’s that, fc. Bayle? Why, sir, 

I’m Never mind. I’m not so young as I used to be. 

And so you think I look well— eh, Bayle?” 

“ Indeed you do, Sir Gordon ; remarkably well.” 

“Ha! That confounded Scott! Colonel Scott at the 
club set it about that' I’d been away for two years so as to 
get myself cut down and have time to sprout up again, I 
looked so young. Bah! what does it matter? It’s the sea 
life, Ba5de, keeps a man healthy and strong. I wish I could 
persuade you to come with me on one of my trips.” 

“No, no! Keep away with your temptations. Too 
busy.” 

“Nonsense, man! Fellow with your income grinding 
day after day as you do. But how young you look! How 
is Mrs. Hallam?” 

‘ ‘ Eemarkably well. I saw her yesterday. ’ ’ 

“ And little Julie?” 

“Little!” «aid Christie Bayle, laughing frankly, and 
justifying Sir Gordon’s remarks about his youthful looks. 
“ Eeally, I should like to ^ there when you call. You will 
be astonished. ’ ’ 

“ What, has the child grown?” 

“Child? Grown? Why ,.4ny dear sir, you will have to 
be presented to a beautiful young lady of eighteen, won- 
derfully like her mother in the old days. ’ ’ 

“Indeed! Ha! y^. Old days, Bayle. Yes, old days 
indeed. The thought''of them makes me feel how time has 
gone. Look young, eh? Bah! I’m an old fool, Bayle. 
Deal better if I had been born poor. You should see me 
when Tom Porter takes me to pieces and puts me to bed of 
a night. Why, Bayle, I don’t mind telling you. Always 
were a good lad, and I liked you. I’m one of the most 
frightful impositions of my time. Wig, sir; confound it! 
sham teeth, sir, and they are horribly uncomfortable. 
Whiskers dyed, sir. The rest’s all tailor’s work. Feel 
ashamed of myself sometimes. At others I say to myself 
that it’s showing a bold front to the enemy. No, sir, not a 
bit of truth in me anywhere.” 

“ Except your heart,” said Bayle, smiling. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


189 


“Tchut ! man, hold your tongue. Now, about yourself. 
Why don’t you get a comfortable rectory somewhere in- 
stead of plodding on in this hole?” 

“ Because I am more useful here.” 

“Nonsense! Get a good West End lectureship.” 

‘ ‘ ^ refer the north here. ’ ’ 



“My dear Christie Bay le, you are throwing yourself 
away. There, I can’t keep it back. Old Dr. Thomson, is 
dead, and if you will come, I have sufficient interest with 
the bishop, providing I bring forward a good man, to get 
him the living at King’s Castor.” 

Christie Bayle shook his head sadly. 

“No, Sir Gordon,” he said, with a curious wistful look 
coming into his eyes. ‘ ‘ That would be too paiiif ul~too full 
of sad memories. ’ ’ 

“Pooh! nonsense, man! You can’t be a curate all your 
life.” 

“Why not? I do not want the payment of a better post 
in the Church. ’ ’ 

“Of course not; but come, say ‘Yes.’ As to memories, 
fudge ! man, you have your memories everywhere. If you 
were out in Australia you’d have them, same as I dare say 
a friend of ours has. Let the past go. ’ ’ 

Bayle shook his head. 

“ I’m thinking of settling down there myself. Getting 
too old for sea trips. If you’d come down that would 
decide me.” 

“No, no. It would never do. I could not leave town.” 

“ Ah, so you pretend, sir. I’ll be bound that, if you had 
a good motive, you’d be off anywhere, in spite of what you 
say.” 

“ Perhaps. Your motive is not strong enough.” 

“What, not your own interest, man?” 

“My dear Sir Gordon, no. What interest have I in 
myself? Why, I have been blessed by Providence with a 
good income and few wants, and for the past eighteen 
years I’ve been so busy thinking about other people that I 
should feel guilty of a crime if I began to be selfish now.” 

“You’re a queer fellow, Bayle, but you may alter your 
mind. I’ve made up mine that you shall have the old liv- 
ing at King’s Castor. I sha’n’t marry now, so I don’t 
want you for that; but, please God I don’t go down in 
some squall, I should like you to say, ‘ Ashes to ashes, dust 
to dust,’ over the remains of a very selfish old man, for I 
sometimes think that it can’t be long first now.” 

“My dear old friend,” said Bayle, shaking his hand 
warmly, ‘ ‘ I pray that the day may be very far distant. 
When it does come, as it comes to us all, I shall be able to 
think that the selfishness of which you speak was mere 


190 


THIS MAWS WIFE. 


outside show. Gordon Bourne, I seem to be a simple kind 
of man, but I think I have learned to read men’s hearts,” 

The old man’s lip quivered a little, and he tried vainly to 
speak. Then, giving his stout ebony cane a stamp on the 
floor, he raised it and shook it threateningly. 

“ Confound you, Bayle, I wish you were as poor as Job.” 

“Why?” 

'“So that I might leave you all I’ve got. Perhaps I 
shall.” 

“No, no, don’t do that,” said Bayle, seriously, and his 
frank, handsome face turned anxious; “ I have more than 
I want. But come, tell me ; you have been down to Castor, 
then?” 

“Yes, I was there a week.” 

“ And how are they all?” 

“ Older, of course, but things seem about the same. 
Place like that does not change much.” 

“ But the people do.” 

“ Not they. By George! sir, one of the first men I saw 
as I limped down the street in a pair of confoundedly 
tight Hessians Hoby made for me— punish my poor corns 
horribly. What with them and the stiff cravats a gentle- 
man is forced to wear, life is unendurable. Ah, you don’t 
study appearances at sea. Wish I could wear boots like 
those, Bayle.” 

“You were saying that you saw somebody.” 

“ Ah, yes; to be sure, I trailed off about my boots. Why, 
I am getting into— lose leeway, sir. But I remember now. 
First man I saw was old Gemp, sitting like a figure-head 
outside his cottage. Regular old mummy ; but he seemed 
to come to life as soon as he heard a step, and turned his 
eyes toward me, looking as inquisitive as a monkey Poor 
old boy ! almost paralyzed, and has to be lifted in and out. 
I often wonder what was the use of such men as he.” 

Christie Bayle’s broad shoulders gave a twitch, and he 
looked up in an amused manner. 

“Ah, well, what was the use of me, if you like. Doctor 
looked well, so does the old lady. Said they were up here 
three months ago and enjoyed their visit. I say, Bayle, 
you’d better have the living. Mrs. Hallam might be dis- 
posed to go down to the old home again, eh?” 

A quiet, stern look that made Christie Bayle appear ten 
years older, and changed him in aspect from one of thirty- 
five to nearer fifty, came over his face. 

“No,” he said; “I am sure Mrs. Hallam would never go 
back to Castor to live.” 

“ Humph ! Well, you know best. T say, Bayle, does she 
want help? It is such a delicate matter to offer it to her, 
especially in our relative positions,” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


191 


“No, T am sure she does not,’' said Bayle, quickly; 
“ you would hurt her feelings by the offer.” 

Sir Gordon nodded, and sat gazing at one particular 
flower in the carpet of his host’s simply furnished room, 
Avhich he poked and scraped with his stick. 

“ How was Thickens?” 

“Just the same; not altered a bit, unless it be to look 
more drab. Mrs. Thickens — that woman’s an impostor, 
sir. She has grown younger since she married,” 

“Yes, she astonished me,” said Bayle, smiling with sat- 
isfaction that his visitor had gone off dangerously painful 
ground; “ plump, pleasant little body.” 

“With fat Ailing up her creases, and covering up her 
holes and corners !” cried Sir Gordon, interrupting. “ Con- 
found it all, sir, I could never get the fat to come and All 
up my creases and furrows. I saw her standing there, 
feeding Thickens’ fish, smiling at them, and as happy as 
the day was long. Deal happier than when she was Miss 
Heathery. Everybody seems to be happy but me. I 
never am.” 

“ See the Tram pleasures?” said Bayle. 

“Oh, yes, saw them, and heard them, too. Regular or- 
nament to the bank, Trampleasure. People believe in 
him, though. Talks to them, and asks the farmers in to 
lunch. If he were not there they’d think Dixon’s was 
going. Poor old Dixon, how cut up he was over that Hal- 
1am business ! It killed him, Bayle. ’ ’ 

“ Think so?” said Bayle, with his brow wrinkling. 

“ Sure of it, sir. It was not the money he cared for; it 
was the principle of the thing. Dixon’s name had stood so 
high in the town and neighborhood. There was a mystery, 
too, about the matter that was never cleared up.” 

“Hadn’t we better change the subject. Sir Gordon?” 

“No, sir,” said Bayle’s visitor, curtly. “Garrulity is 
one of the privileges of old age. We old men don’t get 
many privileges ; let me enjoy that. I like to gossip about 
old times to some one who understands them as you do. 
If you don’t like to hear me, say so, and I will go.” 

“No, no; pray stay, and I’ll go down with you to the 
club.” 

“Ha! that’s right. Well, as I was saying, there was a 
bit of mystery about that which worried poor old Dixon 
terribly. We never could make out what that scoundrel 
had done with the money. He and that other fellow, Crel- 
lock, could easily get rid of a good deal ; but there was a 
large sum unaccounted for, I’m sure.” 

There was a pause here, and Sir Gordon seeined to be 
hesitating about saying something that was on his mind. 
“You wanted to say something,” said Bayle, at last, 


192 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


“Well, yes, I was going to say, you see a deal of the 
widow, don’t you?” 

“Widow? what widow? Oh, Mrs. Richardson. Poor 
thing, yes! but how did you know T took an interest in 
her? Ha! there, you may give me ten pounds for her.” 

“ Mrs. Richardson! Pooh! I mean Mrs. Hallam.” 

“ Widow?” 

“Well, yes; what else is she? Husband transported for 
life. The man is socially dead.” 

“ You do not know Mrs. Hallam,” said Bayle, gravely. 

“Do you think she believes in him still?” 

“With her whole heart. He is to her the injured man, 
a victim to a legal error, and she lives in the belief which 
she has taught her child, that some day her martyr’s re- 
putation will be cleared, and that he will take his place 
among his fellow-men once more.” 

“I wish I could think so too, for her sake,” said Sir 
Gordon, after a pause. 

“Amen!” 

“ But, Bayle, you — you don’t ever think there was any 
mistake?” 

“ It is always painful to me to speak of a man whom I 
never could esteem.” 

“ But to me, man— to me.” 

“ For twelve years. Sir Gordon, I have had the face of 
that loving, trusting woman before me, steadfast in her 
faith in the husband she loves.” 

“Loves?” 

“As truly as on the day she took him first to her 
heart.” 

“ But do you think that she really still believes him in- 
nocent — I mean in her heart of hearts?” 

‘ ‘ In her heart of hearts ; and so does her child. And I 
say that this is the one painful part of our intimacy. It 
has been the cause of coldness and even distant treatment 
as times.” 

“ But she seems to have exonerated you from all credit 
in his arrest.” 

“Oh, yes, long ago. She attributes all to the accident of 
chance and the treachery of the man Crellock.” 

“ Who was only Hallam’s tool.” 

“Exactly. But she forgives me, believing me her 
truest friend.” 

“And rightly. The man who saved the wreck of her 
husband’s property at the time of the— er— well, accident, 
Bayle, eh?” 

“Shall we change the subject?” said Bayle, coldly. 

“ No, I like to talk about poor Mrs. Hallam, and I will 
call and see her soon.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


198 


“ But you will be careful,” said Bayle, earnestly. ” Of 
course your presence will bring back sad memories. Do 
not pain her by any allusion to Hallam.” 

” I will take care. But look here, Bayle; you did come 
up here to be near them ?’ ’ 

“Certainly I did. Why, Sir Gordon, that child seemed 
to be part of my life, and when Mrs. Hallam had that long 
illness the little thing came to me as if I Avere her father. 
She had always liked me, and that liking has grown.” 

“You educated her?” 

“ Oh, I don’t know; I suppose so,” said Bayle, looking up 
Avith a frank, ingenuous smile. “We have always read to- 
gether, and painted, and then there Avas the music of an 
CA^ening. You must hear her sing!” 

“Hal I should like to, Bayle. Perhaps I shall. Don’t 
think me impertinent, but you see I am so much away in 
my j^acht. Selfish old fellow, you know; Avant to live as 
long as I can, and I think I shall live longer if I go to sea 
than if T stroll idling about Castor, or in London at my 
club. I’ve asked you a lot of questions. I suppose you 
ha\"e done all the teaching?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, dear, no ; her mother has had a large share in the 
child’s education.” 

“ Humph! Avhen I called her child I was snubbed.” 

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Bayle, frankly. “Well, I’ve 
grown to think of her as my child, and she looks upon me 
almost as she might upon her father.” 

“Humph!” said Sir Gordon, rather gruffly. “I half 
expected, every time I came back, to find you married, 
Bayle.” 

“Find me married?” said Bayle, laughing. “My dear 
sir, I am less likely to marry than you. Confirmed old 
bachelor ; and I am very happy —happier than I deserve to 
be.” 

“ Don’t cant, Bayle,” cried Sir Gordon, peevishly. “ I’ve 
ahvays liked you because you never threAv sentiments of 
that kind at me. Don’t begin now. Well, there, I must 
trot. You are going to dine with me?” 

“Yes; I’ve promised.” 

“Ah,” said Sir Gordon, looking at Bayle almost envi- 
ously, “you always Avere quite a boy. What a physique 
you have. Why, man, you don’t look thirty -five.” 

“I’m very sorry. 

“Sorry, man?” 

“ Well, then, I’m very glad.” 

“ Bah ! There, put on your hat and come down at once. 
I hate this part of London.” 

“And I have grown to love it. ‘The mind is its own 
place ’ You know the rest.” 


194 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


“Oh, yes, I know the rest,” said Sir Gordon, gruffly. 

“ Come along. Where can we get a coach?” 

“ I’ll show you,” said Bayle, taking his arm and leading 
him through two or three streets, to stop at last in a quiet, 
new-looking square close by St. John Street.” 

“Well, what’s the matter?” said Sir Gordon, testily. 

“Nothing, I hope; only I must make a call here before I 
go down with you.” 

“ For goodness’ sake make haste, then, man. My boots 
are torturing me.’.’ 

“Come in, then, and sit down,” said Bayle, smiling, as 
a stern-looking woman opened the door and courtesied 
familiarly. 

“ I must either do that or sit upon the step,” said the 
old gentleman, peevishly ; and he followed Bayle into the 
passage, and then into the parlor, for he seemed quite at 
home. 

Then a change came over Sir Gordon’s face, for Bayle 
said, quietly: 

“ My dear Mrs. Hallam, I have brought an old friend.” 


CHAPTER II. 

A PEEP BEHIND THE CLOUDS. 

The meeting was painful, for Millicent Hallam and Sir 
Gordon had never stood face to face since that day when 
he had himself opened the door for her on the occasion of 
her appeal to him on her husband’s behalf. 

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Sir Gordon. “I did not 
know this.” 

“It is a surprise, too, for me,” said Mrs. Hallam, as she 
colored slightly, and then turned pale ; but in a moment or 
two she was calm and composed— a handsome, grave-look- 
ing lady, with unlined face, but with silvery streaks run- 
ning through her abundant hair. 

“ You— you should have told me, Bayle,” said Sir Gor- 
don, testily. 

“And spoiled my surprise,” said Bayle. 

“lam very, very glad to see you. Sir Gordon,” said 
Mrs. Hallam, in a grave, sweet way, once more thoroughly 
mistress of her emotions. “Julie, my dear, you hardly 
recollect our visitor?” 

“Yes, oh, yes!” said a tall, graceful girl, coming for- 
ward to place her hand in Sir Gordon’s. “ I seem to see 
you back as if through a mist; but— oh, yes, I remember!” 
She hesitated and blushed and laughed. ” You one day — 
you brought me a great doll. ’ ’ 

Sir Gordon had taken both her hands, letting fall hat 
and stick. He tried to speak, but the words would not 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


195 


come. His lips quivered, his face twitched, and Julia felt 
his hands tremble as she looked at him with naive wonder, 
unable to comprehend his emotion. 

He raised her hand as if to press it to his lips, but let it 
fall, and, drawing her toward him, kissed her tenderly on 
the brow, ending by retaining her hand in both of his. 

“An old man’s kiss, my child,” he said, gazing at her, 
wistfully. “You remind me so of one I loved — twenty 
years ago, my dear, and before you were born.” He 
looked round from one to the other, as if apologizing for 
his emotion. “My dear Bayle, ” he said at last, recovering 
himself, and speaking with chivalrous courtesy, “I am in 
your debt for introducing me to our young friend. Mrs. 
Hallam, you will let me come and see you?” 

Millicent hesitated, and there was a curious, haughty, 
defiant look in her eyes as she gazed at her visitor, as if at 
bay. 

“ I am sure Mrs. Hallam will be glad to see a very dear 
old friend of mine,” said Bayle, quietly; and as he spoke, 
Mrs. Hallam glanced at him. Her eyes softened, and she 
held out her hand to her visitor. 

“ Always glad to see you,” she said. 

Sir Gordon smiled and looked pleased, as he glanced 
round the pretty, simply furnished room, with tokens of 
the busy hands that adorned it on every side. Here was 
Julia’s drawing, there her embroidery; there were her 
flowers in the window; the bird that twittered so sweetly 
from its cage hung on the shutter, and the piano, were hers 
too. There was only one jarring note in the whole in- 
terior, and that was the portrait in oils of the handsome 
man, in the most prominent place in the room — a picture 
that at one corner was a little blistered, as if by fire, and 
whose eyes seemed to be watching the visitor wherever he 
turned. 

There were many painful memories revived during that 
visit, but on the wnole it was pleasant; and with the 
agony of the past softened by time, Millicent Hallam found 
herself speaking half reproachfully to Sir Gordon for not 
visiting her during all these years. 

“Don’t blame me,” he said, in reply; “I have always 
felt that there was a wish implied on your part that our 
acquaintance should cease, as being too painful for both.” 

“ Perhaps it was,” she said, with a sigh; “ and I am to 
blame.” 

“Let us share it, if there be any blame,” said Sir Gor- 
don, smiling, “and amend our ways. You must remem- 
ber, though, that I have always kept up my friendship 
with the doctor whenever I have been at home, and I have 
always heard of your well-being, or ” 


196 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


“ Oh, yes!” said Mrs. Hallam, hastily, as if to check any 
allusion to assistance. ” When I recovered from my seri- 
ous illness I was anxious to leave Castor. I thought, per- 
haps, that my child’s education — in London — and Mr. Bayle 
was very kind in helping me.” 

” He is a good friend,” said Sir Gordon, gravely. 

“Friend!” cried Mrs. Hallam, with her face full of ani- 
mation, “he has been to me a brother. When I was in 
utter distress at that terrible time, he extricated my poor 
husband’s money- affairs from the miserable tangle in 
which they were left, and by a wise management of the 
little remainder so invested it that there was a sufficiency 
for Julia and me to live upon in this simple manner.” 

“ He did all this for you?” said Sir Gordon, dryly. 

“Yes, and would have placed his purse at my disposal, 
but that he saw how painful such an offer would have 
been.” 

“Of course,” said Sir Gordon — “ most painful.” 

“ I often fear that I did wrong in allowing him to leave 
Castor; but he has done so much good here that I tell my- 
self all was for the best. ’ ’ 

And so the conversation rippled on, Julia sometimes 
being drawn in, and now and then Bayle throwing in a 
word, but on the whole simply looking on, an interested 
spectator, who was appealed to now and then as if he had 
been the brother of one, the uncle of the other. 

At last Sir Gordon rose to go, taking quite a lingering 
farewell of Julia, at whom he gazed again in the same wist- 
ful manner. 

“Good-bye,” he said, smiling tenderly at her while hold' 
ing her little hand in his. ‘ ‘ I shall come again — soon— yes, 
soon ; but not to bring you a doll. ’ ’ 

There was a jingle of a tiny bell as they closed the door, 
and the hard-faced woman had to squeeze by the visitors 
to get to the door, the passage was so small. 

Sir Gordon stared hard, and then placed his large square 
glass to his eye. 

“To be sure— yes. It’s you,” he said. “ The old maid, 
Thisbe ” 

“Some people can’t help being old maids,” said that 
lady, tartly, “and some wants to be, sir.” 

“I beg your pardon,” said Sir Gordon, with grave po- 
liteness. “ You mistake me. I meant the maid who used 
to be with Dr. and Mrs. Luttrell in the old times. To be 
sure, yes, and with Mrs. Hallam afterward.’ ’ 

“Yes, Sir Gordon.” 

“So you’ve kept to your mistress all through— I mean 
you have stayed. ’ ’ 

“Yes, sir, of course I have.” 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 197 

“ And been one of the truest and best of friends,” said 
Bayle, smiling. 

Thisbe gave herself a jerk and glanced over her shoul- 
der, as though to see if the way were clear for her escape, 
should she have to run and avoid this praise. 

“Ah, yes,” said Sir Gordon, looking at her still very 
thoughtfully. “To be sure,” he continued, in quite 
dreamy tones, “I had almost forgotten. Tom Porter 
wants to marry you.” 

“ Then Tom Porter must ” 

“Tchut! tchut! tchut! woman; don’t talk like that. 
Make your hay while the sun shines. Good fellow, Tom. 
Obstinate, but solid and careful. Come, Bayle. ’ ’ 

“Ah,” he sighed, as they walked slowly down_ the 
street, 

“ ‘ Gather your rose-buds while you may, 

Old Time is still a-flying. ’ 

You and I have never been rose-bud gatherers, Christie 
Bayle. It will give us the better opportunity for watch- 
ing those who are. Bayle, old friend, we must look out: 
there must be no handsome, plausible scoundrel to come 
and win that fragrant little bloom — we must not have an- 
other sweet young life wrecked — like hers.” 

He made a backward motion with his head toward the 
house they had left. 

“ Heaven forbid!” cried Bayle, anxiously; and his coun- 
tenance was full of wonder and dismay. 

“You must look out, sir, look out,” said Sir Gordon, 
thumping his cane. 

“ But she is a mere girl yet.” 

‘ ‘ Bah ! man ; tush ! man. It is your mere girls who form 
these fancies. What have you been about?” 

“About?” said Bayle. “About? I don’t knoAv. I have 
thought of such a thing as my little pupil forming an at- 
tachment, but it seemed to be a thipg of the far-distant 
future.” 

Sir Gordon shook his head. 

“There is nothing, then, now?” 

“ Oh, absurd ! Why she is only eighteen.” 

“ Eighteen!” said Sir Gordon, sharply; “ and at eighteen 
girls are only cutting their teeth and wearing pinafores, 
eh? Go to. blind mole of a parson? Why, millions of 
them lose their names long before that. Come, come, 
man, Avake up! A pretty Avatchman of that fair sweet 
toAver you are, to have never so much as thought of the 
enemy when already he may be making his approach.” 

Bayle turned to him, looking half beAvildered, but the 
look passed off. 

“No,” he said, firmly; “the enemy is not in sight yet. 


198 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


and you shall not have cause to speak to me again like 
that.” 

“That’s right, Bayle; that’s right. Dear, dear,” he 
sighed, as they walked slowly on toward the city, “how 
time does gallop on! It seems just one step from Milli- 
cent Luttrell’s girlhood to that of her child. Yes, yes, yes; 
these young people increase, and grow so rapidly that 
they fill up the world, and shoulder us old folk over the 
edge.” ^ 

‘ ‘ Unless they have yachts, ’ ’ said Bayle, smiling. ‘ ‘ Plenty 
of room at sea. ’ ’ 

“Ah, to be sure; that reminds me, I have been at sea. 
Man, man, what an impostor you are!” 

“I!” exclaimed Bayle, looking round at his companion 
in a startled manner. 

“To be sure. Poor lady! She has been confiding to 
me, while you were chatting with little Julie about the 
piano. ’ ’ 

Bayle gave an angry stamp. 

“ And your careful management of the remains of her 
husband’s property.” 

Bayle knit his brow and increased his pace. 

“No, no,” cried Sir Gordon, snatching at and taking his 
arm. “ No running away from unpleasant truths, Christie 
Bayle. You paid the counsel for Hallam’s defense, did you 
not?” 

Bayle nodded shortly, and uttered an angry ejacula- 
tion. 

“ And there was not a shilling left when Hallam was 
gone?” 

No answer. 

“ Come, come, speak. I am going to have the truth, my 
friend ; priesthood and deception must not go hand-in-hand. 
Now, then, did Hallam have any money?” 

“If he had it would have been handed over to Dix- 
on’s Bank,” said Bayle, sharply. “ I should have seen it 
done.” 

‘ ‘ Ha ! I thought so. Then look here, sir, you have been 
investing your money for the benefit of that poor woman 
and her child.” 

No answer. 

“Christie Bayle, do you love that woman still?” 

“Sir Gordon! No, I will not be angry. Yes; as a man 
might love a dear sister smitten by affliction ; and her child 
as if she were my own.” 

“Ha! and you have had invested so much money — your 
own, for their benefit. Why have you done this?” 

“ I thought it was my duty toward the widow and fath- 
erless in their affliction,” said Bayle, simply; and Sir Gor- 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


199 


don turned and peered round in the brave, honest face at 
his side to find it slightly flushed, but ready to meet his 
gaze with fearless frankness. 

“Ah,” sighed Sir Gordon at last, “ it was not fair.” 
“Not fair?” said Bayle, wonderingly. 

“No, sir. You might have let me do half.” 


CHAPTER III. 

BY THE fire’s GLOW. 

“ Won’t you have the lamp lit. Miss Millicent. 

“No, Thisbe, not yet,” said Mrs. Hallam, in a low, 
dreamy voice; and Avithout a word the faithful follower of 
her mistress in trouble Avent softly out, closing the door, 
and leaving mother and daughter alone. 

“ She’s got one of her fits on,” mused Thisbe. “Ah, 
how it does come over me sometimes like a temptation- 
just about once a month ever since — to have one good go 
at her and tell her I told her so; that it Avas all that might 
be expected of wedding a handsome man. ‘ Didn’t I tell 
you hoAv it Avould be?’ But no; I couldn’t say a word to 
the poor dear, and her going on believing in the bad scamp 
as she does all these years. She’s different to me. It’s 
just for all the AA^orld like a teniptation that comes over 
me, driving me like to speak; but I’ve kept my mouth 
shut all these years, and I’m going to do it still. ” 

Thisbe had reached her little brightly -kept kitchen, 
where she stood thoughtfully gazing at the fire, Avith one 
hand upon her hip, for some minutes. 

Then a peculiar change came upon Thisbe’ s hard face. 
It seemed as if it had been washed over Avith something 
SAveet, which softened it ; then it suggested the idea that 
she was about to sneeze, and ended by a violent spasmodic 
tAvitch, quite a convulsion. Thisbe’s body remained mo- 
tionless, 'though her face was altered, and by degrees her 
eyes, after brightening and sparkling, grew suffused and 
dreamy, as she gazed straight before her and seemed to be 
thinking very deeply. Her countenance Avas free from 
the spasm now, and as the candle shone upon it, it brought 
prominently into notice the fact that in her love of cleanli- 
ness, Thisbe was not so particular as she might have been 
in the process of rinsing ; for the fact AA^as patent that she 
rubbed herself profusely Avith soap, and left enough upon 
her face after her ablutions to produce the effect of an 
elastic varnish or glaze. 

Everything was very still, the only sounds being the 
dull wooden tick of the Dutch clock, and the drowsy chirp 
of an asthmatic cricket, which seemed to have Avedged 
itself somewhere in a crack behind the grate, and to be 


200 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


bemoaning its inability to get out; while the clock ticked 
hoarsely, as if its life were a burden, and it were heartily 
sick of having that existence renewed by a nightly pulling 
up of the two black iron sausages that hung some distance 
below its sallow face. 

Suddenly Thisbe walked sharply to the fire, seized the 
poker, and cleared the bottom bar. This done, she re- 
placed the poker, and planted one foot upon the fender to 
warm, and one hand upon the mantel-piece with so much 
inadvertence that she knocked down the tinder-box, and 
had to pick the flint and steel from out of the ashes with 
the brightly polished tongs. 

“ I don’t know what’s come to me,” she said, sharply, as 
soon as the tinder-box was replaced. ” Think of her hold- 
ing fast to him all these years, and training up my bairn 
to believe in him as if he was a noble martyr! My word, 
it’s a. curious thing for a woman to be taken like that with 
a man, and no matter what he does to be always believing 
him !” 

Thisbe pursed up her lips, and twitched her toes up and 
down as they rested upon the fender, while she directed 
her conversation at the golden caverns of the fire. 

“They say Gorringe the tailor used to beat his wife; 
but that woman always looked happy, and I’ve seen her 
smile on him as if there wasn’t such another man in the 
world.” 

Just then the clock gave such a wheeze that Thisbe 
started and stared at it. 

“Quite makes me nervous,” she said, turning back to 
the fire. “What with the thinking and worry, and her 
keeping always in the same mind; oh my!” 

She took her hand from the mantel-piece to clap it upon 
its fellow as a sudden thought struck her which made her 
look aghast. 

“ If he did 1” she said, after a pause. “And yet she ex- 
pects it some day. Oh, dear me! oh, dear me! what weak, 
foolish, trusting things women are ! They take a fancy to 
a man, and then, because you don’t believe in him, too, it’s 
hoity-toity, and never forgive me. Well, poor soul! per- 
haps it’s all for the best. It may comfort her in her 
troubles. I wonder what Tom Porter looks like now,” 
she said, suddenly, and then looked sharply and guiltily 
round to see if her words had been heard. “I declare 
I ought to be ashamed of myself,” she said; and, rushing 
at some work, she plumped herself down and began to 
stitch with all her might. 

In the little parlor all was very quiet, save the occasional 
footstep in the street. The blind was not drawn down, and 
the faint light from outside mingled with the glow from 


THIS 3IAN’S WIFE. 


201 


the fire, which threw up the face of Julia Hallam, where 
she sat dreamily gazing at the embers, against the dark 
transparency, giving her the look of a painting by one of 
the Italian masters of the past. 

At the old-fashioned square piano her mother was seated, 
with her hands resting upon the keys, which were silent. 
Further distant from the fire her figure, graceful still, 
seemed melting into a deeper transparency, one. which 
grew deeper and deeper, till, in the corner of the room, 
and right and left of the fireplace, the shadows seemed to 
be almost solid, and the accustomed eye detected the vari- 
ous objects that furnished the room, melting, as it were, 
away. 

Only on one spot did there seem a discordant note in the 
general harmony of the softly glowing scene, and that was 
where the rays from a newly-lighted street-lamp shone 
straight upon the wall and across the picture of Eobert 
Hallam, cutting it strangely asunder, and giving to the 
upper portion of the face a weird and almost ghastly look. 

Thisbe’s steps had died out and her kitchen door had 
closed; but the musings of the two women had been inter- 
rupted, and did not go back to their former current. 

All at once, soft as a memory of the by-gone, the notes 
of the piano began to sound, and Julia changed her posi- 
tion, resting one arm upon the chair by her side, and listen- 
ing intently to a dreamy old melody that brought back to 
her the drawing-room in the old house at Castor — a hand- 
somely furnished, low-ceiled room, with deep window- 
seat, on whose cushion she had often knelt to watch tlie 
passing vehicles, while her mother played that very tune 
in the half light. 

So dreamy, so softened, as if mingled there with a 
strange sadness. Now just as it was then, one of the 
vivid memories of childhood, “ Weber’s last waltz,” an air 
so sweet, so full of melancholy, that it seems wondrous 
that our parents could have danced to its strains, till we 
recall the doleful minor music of minuet, coranto, and sara- 
band. Dancing must have been a serious matter in those 
days. 

Soft and sweet, chord after chord, each laden with its 
memory to Julia Hallam. 

Her mother was playing that when her father came in 
hastily that night, and was so angry because there were no 
lights; that night when she stole away to Thisbe. 

She was plac ing it, too, that afternoon when Grand- 
mamma Luttrell came, and was in such low spirits, and 
would not tell the reason why. Again that night when she 
shrunk away from her father, and he flung her hands from 
him, and said that angry word. 


202 


THIS' MAN WIFE. 


Memory after memory came back from the past as Mil- 
licent Hallam played softly on, making her child’s face 
lustrous, the eyes grow more dreamy, the curved neck 
bend lower, and the tears begin to gather, till, with quite 
a start, the young girl raised her head and saw the rays 
from the gas-lamp shining across the picture beyond her 
mothers dimly seen profile. 

Julia rose to cross to her mother’s side, and knelt down 
to pass her arms round the shapely waist and there rest. 

“ Go on playing,” she said, softly. “ Now tell me about 
poor papa. ’ ’ 

The notes of the old melody seemed to have an addi- 
tional strain of melancholy as they floated softly through 
the room, sometimes almost dying away, while, after 
waiting a few minutes, they formed the accompaniment to 
the sad story of Millicent Hallam’ s love and faith, told for 
the hundredth time to her daughter. 

For Millicent talked on without a tremor in her voice, 
every word distinct and firm, and yet softly sweet and full 
of tenderness, as it seemed to her that she was telling the 
story of a martyr’s sufferings to his child. 

“ A.nd all these years, and we have heard so little!” 
sighed Julia. ” Poor papa! poor father!” 

The music ceased as she spoke, but went on again as she 
paused. 

” Waiting, my child; waiting as I wait, and as my child 
waits, for the time when he will be declared free, and will 
take his place again among honorable men.” 

“But, mother,” said Julia, “could not Mr. Bayle or Sir 
Gordon have done more? petitioned the king, and pointed 
out this grievous wrong?” 

“ I could not ask Sir Gordon, my child. . There were rea- 
sons why he could not act ; but I did all that was possible, 
year after year, till, in my despair, I found that I must 
wait.” 

“ How glad he must be of your letters!” said Julia, sud- 
denly. 

Millicent Hallam sighed. 

“ I suppose he cannot write tons. Perhaps he feels that 
it would pain us. Mother darling, was I an ill-conditioned, 
perverse child?” 

“ My Julia,” said Mrs. Hallam, turning to her and draw- 
ing her closely to her breast, “ what a question ! No. Why 
do you ask?” 

“ Because I seem just to recollect myself shrinking 
away from papa as if I were sulky or obstinate. It was as 
if I were afraid of him.” 

“Oh, no, no!” cried Mrs. Hallam, anxiously, “ you were 
very young then, and your poor father was constrained, 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE, 


203 


and troubled with many anxieties, which made him feel 
cold and distant. It was his great love for us, my child.” 

‘ ‘ Yes, dear mother, his great love for us— his misfort- 
une.” 

“His misfortune,” sighed Mrs. Hallam. 

“ But some day — when he returns— oh, mother! how we 
will love him, and make him happy I How we will force 
him to forget the troubles of the past!” 

“My darling!” whispered Mrs. Hallam, pressing her 
fondly to her heart. 

“ Do you think papa had many enemies, then?” 

“ I used to think so, my child, but that feeling has passed 
away. I seem to see more clearly now that those who 
caused his condemnation were but the creatures of circum- 
stances. It was the villain who seemed to be your father’s 
evil genius caused all our woe. He made me shiver on the 
morning of our wedding, coming suddenly upon us as lie 
did, as if he were angry with your father for being so 
happy.” 

“ But could we not do something?” said Julia, earnestly. 
“ It seems to be so sad — year after year goes by, and we 
sit idle.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hallam, with a sob; “but that is all 
we can do, my child— sit and wait, sit and wait, but keep- 
ing the home ready for our darling when he comes — the 
home here — and in our hearts.” 

“He is always there, mother,” said Julia, in a low, 
sweet voice — “always. How I remember him, with his 
soft, dark hair, and his dark eyes! I think I used to be a 
little afraid of him.” 

“ Because he seemed stern, my child, that was all. You 
loved him very dearly. ’ ’ 

“He shall see how I will love him when he returns, 
mother,” she added, after a pause. “Do you think he 
gives much thought to us?” 

“Think, my darling? I know he prays day by day for 
the time when he may return. Ah?” she sighed to her- 
self, “ he reproached me once with teaching his child not 
to love him. He could not say so now.” 

“ I wonder how long it will be!” said Julia, thoughtfully. 

“ Do you think he will be much changed?” 

She glanced up at the picture. 

“Changed, Julia?” said her mother, taking the sweet, 
earnest face between her hands, to shower down kisses 
upon it, kisses mingled with tears, “no, not in the least. 
It is twelve long years since, now ; Heaven only knows 
how long to me ! Years when, but for you, my darling, I 
should have sunk beneath my burden. I think I should 
have gone mad. In all those years you have been the link to 


204 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


bind me to life — to make me hope and strive and wait, and 
now I feel sometimes as if the reward were coming, as if 
this long penance were at an end. My love! my husband! 
come to me! oh. come!” 

She uttered these last words with so wild and hysterical 
a cry that Julia was alarmed. 

” Mother!” she whispered, “ you are ill!” 

“No, no, my child; it is only sometimes that I feel so 
deeply stirred. Your words about his being changed 
seemed to move me to the quick. He will not be changed; 
his hair will be gray, his face lined with the furrows of in- 
creasing age and care; but he himself — my dear husband, 
your loving father — will be at heart the same, and we 
shall welcome him back to a life of rest and peace.” 

“Yes, yes!” cried Julia, catching the infection of her 
mother’s enthusiasm; “and it will be soon, will it not, 
mother?— it will be soon?” 

“ Let us pray that it may, my child.” 

“ But, mother, why do we not go to him?” Mrs. Hallam 
shivered slightly. “We should have been near him all 
these years, and we might have seen him. Oh, mother ! if 
it had been only once! Why did you not go?” She rose 
from her knees, as if moved by her excitement. “ Why, I 
would have gone a hundred times as far!” she said, excit- 
edly. “ No distance should have kept me, from the hus- 
band that I loved.” 

“Julie! Julie! are you repi’oaching me?” 

“ Mother!” cried the girl, flinging herself upon her neck, 
“ as if I could reproach \ou !” 

“It would not be just, my child,” said Mrs. Hallam, 
caressing the soft, dark head, “ for I have tried so hard.” 

“ Yes, yes, I know, dear; and I have known ever since I 
have been old enough to think.” 

‘ ‘ In every letter I have sent I have prayed for his leave 
to come out and join him —that I might be near him, for I 
dared not take the responsibility upon myself with you.” 

“ Mother !” 

“ If I had been alone in the world, Julia, I should have 
gone years upon years ago; but I felt that I should be com- 
mitting a breach of trust to take his young, tender child 
all those thousands of miles across the sea, to a land whose 
society is wild, and often lawless.” 

“ And so you asked papa to give his consent?” 

“ Every time I wrote to him, Julia— letters full of trust 
in the future, letters filled with the hope I did not feel. I 
begged him to give me his consent that I might come.” 

“ And he has not replied, mother?” 

“Not yet, my child. Innocent and guilty alike have a 
long probation to pass through,” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


205 


“But he might have written, dear.” 

“How do we know that, Julia?” said Mrs. Hallam, with 
a shade of sternness in her voice. “I have studied the 
matter deeply from the reports and dispatches, and often 
the poor prisoners are sent far up the country as servants 
—almost slaves — to the settlei's. In places sometimes 
where there are no fellow-createres, save the blacks, for 
miles upon miles. No roads, Julie; no post, no means of 
communication. ’ ’ 

“ My poor father!” sighed Julia, sinking upon the carpet, 
half -sitting, half-kneeling, with her hands clasped upon 
her knees, and her gaze directed up, at the dimly seen 
picture on the wall. 

“Yes, my child, I know all,” said Mrs. Hallam. “I 
know him and his pride. Think of a man like him, inno- 
cent, and yet condemned ; dragged from his home like a 
common felon, and forced to herd with criminals of the 
lowest class. Is it not natural that his heart should rebel 
against society, and that he should proudly make his 
stand upon his innocence, and wait in silent suffering for 
the day when the law shall say, ‘ Innocent and injured 
man, come back from the desert. You have been deeply 
wronged?’ ” 

“ Yes, dear mother. Poor father! but not one letter in 
all these years !’ ’ 

“ Julia, my child, you pain me,” cried Mrs. Hallam, ex- 
citedly. “When you speak like that, your words seem to 
imply that he has had the power to send letter or message. 
He is your father— my husband. Child, you must learn 
to think of him with the same faith as I.” 

“Indeed I will, dear,” cried Julia, passionately; and 
then she started to her feet, for tl^re was a quick, decided 
knock at the front door. 

Mrs. Hallam hurriedly tried to compose her features; 
and as Thisbe’s step was heard in the passage she drew in 
her breath, gazed wildly at the picture, just as Julia drew 
down the blind and blotted it from her sight. Then the 
door was opened, and their visitor came in the center of 
the glow shed by the passage-light. 

“ Aha! in the dark?” cried Bayle, in his cheery voice, as 
Thisbe opened the door. “ How I wish I had been born a 
lady! I always envy you that pleasant hour you spend 
in the half light gazing into the fire.” 

“ Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Julia, in a pleasant silvery trill, 
as she hastily lit the lamp, Bayle watching her as the ar- 
gand wick gradually burned round, and she put on the 
glass chimney, the light throwing up her handsome face 
against the gloom till she lifted the great dome -shaped 
globe, which emitted a musical sound before being placed 


206 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


over the lamp, and throwing Julia’s countenance once 
more into the shade. 

“ What are you laughing at?” said Bayle. 

“ At the idea of our Mr. Bayle being idle for an hour, sit- 
ting and thinking over the fire,” said Julia, playfully, to 
draw his attention from her mother’s disturbed counte- 
nance.” 

The attempt was a failure, for Bayle saw clearly that 
something was wrong ; that pain and suffering had been 
there before him; and he sighed as he asked himself what 
he could do more, in his unselfish way, to chase earthly 
cares from that quiet home. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE DREADED MESSAGE. 

There was quite a change in the little house in the 
Clerkenwell Square. Life had been very calm and peace 
ful there for Julia, though she made no friends. Any ad- 
vances made by neighbors were gravely and coldly re- 
pelled by Mrs. Hallam. 

Once, when she had felt injured by her mother’s refusal 
of an invitation for her to some young people’s party, and 
had raised her eyes reproachfully to her face, Mrs. Hallam 
had taken her in her arms, kissing her tenderly. 

“Not yet, my child— not yet,” she whispered. “We 
must wait.” 

Julia colored, and then turned pale, for she understood 
her mother’s meaning. They stood aloof from ordinary 
society, and they possessed a secret. 

But now, since Sir Gordon had been brought to the 
house by Christie Bayle, their life appeared to Julia to be 
changed. Her mother seemed less oppressed and sad dur- 
ing the evenings when Sir Gordon came, as be did now 
frequently. There was so much to listen to in the animated 
discussions between the banker and the clergyman; and 
as they discussed some political question with" great ani- 
mation, Julia leaned forward smiling and slightly flushed 
as Bayle, with all the force of a powerful orator, delivered 
his opinions, that were, as a rule, more sentimental than 
sound, more full of heart than logic. 

He would always end with a fine peroration, from the 
force of habit; and Julia would clap her Hands, while Mrs. 
Hallam smiled. 

“ Wait a bit, my dear,” Sir Gordon would say, nodding 
his head; “ one story is good till the other is told.” 

Then, in the coolest and most matter-of-fact way, he 
would proceed to demolish Bayle’s arguments one by one, 


THIS 3£AN^S WIFE. 


207 


battering them down till the structure crumbled into noth- 
ingness. 

All this, too, was Without effort. He simply drew logical 
conclusions, pointed out errors, showed what would be the 
consequences of following the clergyman’s line of argu- 
ment, and. ended by giving Julia a little nod. 

At the beginning the latter would feel annoyed, for her 
sympathies had all been with Bayle’s plans; then some 
clever point would take her attention ; her young reason 
would yield to the ingenuity of the highly cultivated old 
man’s attack; and finally she would mentally range her- 
self upon his side, and reward him with plaudits from her 
white little hands, darting a triumphant look no\v at Bayle, 
as if saying, “There, we have won!” 

Highly good-tempered were all these encounters; and 
they were always followed by another harmony, that of 
music, Bayle playing, as of old, to Millicent’s accompani- 
ment ; more often to that of her child. 

It was a calm and peaceful little English home, that 
every day grew more attractive to the old club-lounger 
and lover of the sea. 

He colored slightly the first time Bayle came and found 
him there. The next time he nodded, as much as to say, 
“I thought I would run up.” The next it seemed a matter 
of course that an easy -chair should be ready for him in one 
corner, where he took his place after pressing Mrs. Hal- 
lam’s hand warmly, and drawing Julia to him to kiss her 
as if she were his child. 

There was a delicacy, a display of tender reverence, that 
disarmed all suspicion of there being an undercurrent at 
work. “ He is one of my oldest friends,” Mrs. Hallam had 
said to herself; “he feels sympathy for me in my trouble, 
and he seems to love Julia with a father’s love. Why 
should I estrange him? Why keep Julia from his so- 
ciety?” 

It never entered into her mind that by the sentence of 
the law she was a divorced woman, free to marry again; a 
woman in the position of a widow, for her husband was 
socially dead. The seed of such an idea would have fallen 
upon utterly barren ground, and never have put forth 
germinating shoots. 

No; there was the one thought ever present in her heart, 
that sooner or later her husband’s innocence would be pro- 
claimed, and then this terrible present would glide away, 
to be forgotten in the happiness to come. 

Sir Gordon, with all his frank openness of manner, saw 
everything. The slightest word was weighed, each action 
was watched; and when he returned to his chambers in 
St. James’— a tiny suit of very close and dark rooms, 


208 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


which Tom Porter treated as if they were the cabins of a 
yacht — he would cast up the observations he had made. 

“Bayle means the widow,” he said to himself, as he sat 
alone— ‘‘ yes, he means the widow. She is a widow. Well, 
he is a young man, and I am — well, an old fool.” 

Another night he was off upon the other tack.. 

“It’s an insult to her, ’ ’ he said, indignantly. ‘ ‘ Bless her 
grand, true, sweet, innocent heart, she never thinks of him 
but as the good friend he is. She will never think of any 
one but that rascal. Good heavens ! What a fate for her ! 
What a woman to have won!” 

The thought so moved him that he paced his little bed- 
room for scfine time uneasily. 

“As for that fellow Bayle,” he cried, “I see through 
him. He means to marry my sweet little flower, Julie. 
Ha!” 

He sat down smiling, as if there were a pleasant fragrance 
in the very thought of the fair young girl that refreshed 
him, and sent him into a dreamy state full of visions of 
youth and innocence. 

“ I don’t blame him,” he said, after a pause. “ I should 
do the same if I were his age. Yes,” he said, firmly, and 
as if to crush down some offered opposition, “even if she 
be a convict’s daughter. It is not her fault. We do not 
mark out our own paths.” 

Again, another night, and Sir Gordon arrested himself 
several times over in the act of spoiling his carefully 
trimmed nails by nibbling them — a somewhat painful op- 
eration — with his false teeth. 

“It’s time I died ; I honestly believe it’s time I died,” 
he said, testily. ‘ ‘ When a man has grown to an age in 
which he spends his days suspecting the motives of his fel- 
low creatures — ha, of his best friends — it’s time he died, 
for every year he lives makes him worse — gives him more 
to answer for.” 

“ Poor Bayle!” he continued, shaking hands with him- 
self, “ he looks upon each of these two women as some- 
thing holy.” 

“No,” he mused, “that does not express it; there’s 
something too fatherly, too brotherly. No, that’s not it. 
Too friendly; I suppose that’s it; but friendship seems such 
a weak, pitiful word to express his feelings toward hem.” 

“Christie Bayle, my dear friend,” he said, aloud, as he 
rose and gazed straight before him, “ I ask your pardon; 
and — ^^Heaven helping me — I’ll never suspect you again.” 

Sir Gordon seemed to feel better after this, and throw- 
ing himself into an easy-chaii’, he smiled, and looked 
wrinkled — as he had a way of looking in his dressing-room 
— and happy. 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


209 


At first Sir Gordon had gone to the little house at Clerk- 
enwell feeling out of his element, and with an uncomfort- 
able sensation upon him that the neighbors— poor souls 
who were too much occupied with the solution of the 
problem of how to get a sufficiency of bread and meat to 
preserve life — were watching him. 

After a second and third visit this uneasiness wore off, 
and he found himself walking proudly up to the house, 
smiling at Thisbe, who only gave him a hard look in re- 
turn, consequent upon his remark concerning Tom Porter. 

Sometimes Christie Bayle would be there. As often not. 
But the chair was always ready for him, and Julia took 
his hat and stick. 

It was generally after his dinner at the club that he 
found his way up there, and on these occasions Thisbe 
asked no questions. The moment she had closed the door 
and shown the visitor into the little parlor she went down- 
stairs and put on the kettle. 

As a rule, precisely at nine, Thisbe took up the supper- 
tray, with its simple contents; but on these evenings the 
supper-tray gave place to the tea-tray, and Sir Gordon sat 
for quite an hour sipping his tea and talking, Julia cross- 
ing now and then to fetch his cup. 

One pleasant evening, when the chill of winter had 
passed away, and the few ragged trees in the square gar- 
den, washed less sooty than usual by the cold rains, were 
asserting that there was truth in the genial, soft breaths of 
air that came floating from the west, and that it really 
was spring, Mrs. Hallam, Julia, and Sir Gordon were 
seated at tea in the little parlor with the window open, and 
the sound of the footsteps without coming in regular beats. 
Prom time to time Julia walked to the window to look out, 
turning her head aside to lay her cheek against the pane 
and gaze as far up the side of the square as she could, 
giving Sir Gordon a picture to watch, of which he seemed 
never to tire, as he sat with half-closed eyes. Then the girl 
returned to seat herself at the piano and softly ^lay a few 
notes. 

“That must be he,” she said, suddenly, and Sir Gordon’s 
face twitched. 

“ No, my dear,” said Mrs. Hallam, quietly; “ that is not 
his step.” 

Sir Gordon’s hair seemed to move suddenly down toward 
his eyebrows, and his lips tightened, so did his eyelids, as 
he gave a sharp glance at mother and daughter. Then his 
conscience gave him a twinge, and he made a brave effort 
to master his unpleasant thoughts. ; 

“Bayle is uncommonly late to-night, is he not?” he 
said. 


210 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“He is late like this sometimes,” said Mrs, Hallam. 
“He works very hard among the people, and attends par- 
ish meetings, where there may be long discussions.” 

“Humph, yes, so I suppose. I hope he does some 
good.” 

“Some good!” cried Julia, excitedly. “Oh, you don’t 
know how much!” 

“And you do, I suppose,” said Sir Gordon, in rather a 
constrained tone of voice. 

“ Oh, not a hundredth part,” cried Julia, naively. “ Oh, 
Sir Gordon, I wish you were half so good a man!” 

“Julia!” exclaimed Mrs. Hallam. 

“Upon my word, young — bless my soul! I! — tut, tut! — 
hush, hush! Mrs. Hallam.” 

Sir Gordon began angrily, but his testiness was of a few 
moments’ duration, and he laughed at first in a forced, 
half-irritable manner, then more heartily, and ended by 
becoming quite overcome with mirth, and wiping the 
tears from his eyes, while mother and daughter exchanged 
glances. 

“And here have I been deferential, and treating you. 
Miss Julie, like a grown-up young lady, while all the time 
you are only one of those innocent little maidens who say 
unpleasant truths before elderly people.” 

“Oh^ Sir Gordon,” cried Julia, coloring deeply, “lam 
so sorry. ’ ’ 

“Oh, sorrow is no good after such a charge as that!” 
said Sir Gordon, with mock severity. “ So you and your 
mamma have determined that I am a very wicked old 
man, eh?” 

“Sir Gordon!” cried Julia, taking his hand. “Indeed, 
indeed, I only meant that Mr. Bayle was the best and 
kindest of friends. ” 

“ While I was the most testy, exacting, and ” 

“Indeed, no,” cried Julia, with spirit; “and I will not 
have you condemn yourself. Next to Mr. Bayle, mamma 
and I like you better than any one we know.” 

“ Ah! well, here is Bayle,” said Sir Gordon, as a knock 
was heard; and the curate appeared next minute in the 
doorway. 

The lamp had been lit, and his face looked so serious 
and pale that Sir Gordon noticed the fact on the instant. 

“Why, Bayle,” he cried, warmly, “how bad you look! 
Not ill?” 

“111? No; oh no!” he said, quietly. “I have been de- 
tained by business.” 

Mrs. Hallam looked at him anxiously, for beneath the 
calm there was ever a strange state of excitement waiting 
to break forth. For years she had been living in the ex- 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


211 


pectation that the next day some important news would 
come from her husband. Letters she had very few ; but 
the postman’s knock made her turn pale and place her 
hand to her heart, to check its wild beatings, while the 
coming of a stranger to the house had before now com- 
pletely unnerved her. It was but natural, then, that she 
should become agitated by Bayle’s manner. A. thousand 
— ten thousand— things might have happened to disturb 
her old friend, but in her half-hysterical state she could 
find but one cause — her own troubles: and starting up, 
with her hand on her breast, she exclaimed : 

“You have n';\v« ‘’or me!” 

Christie Bayle had no more diplomatic power than a 
child, perhaps less than some, and he sunk back in his 
chair, with his cup half raised to his lips, gazing at her in 
a pained, appealing manner that excited her further. 

“Yes,” she cried, “you are keeping something back. 
You think I cannot bear it, but I can. Yes, I am strong. 
Have I not borne all this pain these twelve years? And do 
you think me a child that you treat me so? Speak, I say 
—speak!” 

“ My dear Mrs. Hallam,” began Sir Gordon, soothingly. 

“Hush, sir!” cried the trembling woman. “Let him 
speak. Mr. Bayle, why do you torture me — you, my best 

friend? What have I done that you Ah, I see now! 

I Julia — my child — he is dead ! he is dead !” 

Julia had started to her side and caught her in her arms 
as she burst into a passionate Avail, the first display of the 
Avild despair in her heart that Bayle had seen for many 
years. 

“No, no!” he cried, starting up and speaking Avith 
energv. “Mrs. Hallam, you are wrong. He is alive and 
well.” 

Millicent Hallam threw up her hands, clasped them to- 
gether, reeled, and Avould have fallen but for her child’s 
sustaining arms. It AA^as as if a sudden vertigo had seized 
her, but it passed as quickly as it came. Years of suffer- 
ing had strengthened as well as Aveakened, and the suffer- 
ing woman’s poAver of Avill Avas tremendous. 

“I am better,” she said, in a hoarse, strangely altered 
voice. “Hush, Julie— I can bear it,” she cried, imperi- 
ously. “ Tell 7ne all. You haAm heard of my husband?” 

“ Yes, dear friend, yes; but be calm, and you shall know 
all.” 

“ I am calm.” 

Christie Bayle felt the cold dew stand upon his broAv as 
he faced the pale, stern face before him. It did not seem 
the Millicent Hallam he knew, but one at enmity Avith 


212 THIS MAN'S WIFE, 

him for holding back from her that which was her very 
life. 

“Why do you not speak?” she said, angrily; and she 
took a step toward him. 

In a flash, as it were, Christie Bayle seemed to see into 
the future, and in that future he saw, as it were, the 
simple, happy little home he had made for the woman he 
had once loved crumbling away into nothingness, the 
years of peace gone forever, and a dark future of pain and 
misery usurping their place. The dew upon his brow 
grew heavier, and as Sir Gordon’s eyes ranged from one 
to the other he could read that the anguish in the coun- 
tenance of the man he had made his friend was as great 
as that suffered by the woman to whom, in the happy 
past, they had talked of love. He started as Bayle spoke, 
his voice sounded so calm and emotionless; at times it 
was slightly husky, but it gained strength as he went on, 
its effect being, as he took Mrs. Hallam’s hands, holding 
them as he spoke, to make her sink upon her knees at 
his feet, her anger gone, and the calm of his spirit seem- 
ing to influence her own. 

“I hesitated to speak,” he said, “until I had prepared 
you for what I had to say.” 

“Prepared!” she cried. “ What have all these terrible 
years been but my probation?” 

“Yes, I know,” said Bayle, “but still I hesitated. 
Yes,” he said, quickly, “I liave heard from Mr. Hallam. 
He has written to me — inclosing a letter for his wife.” 

As he spoke, he took the letter from his breast, and 
Mrs. Hallam caught it and read the direction with swim- 
ming eyes. 

“Julie!” she panted, starting to her feet, “read — read 
it— quickly — whisper, my child!” 

She turned her back to the men, and held the letter be- 
neath the lamp. 

Julia stretched out her hand to take the letter, but her 
mother drew it quickly back, with an alarmed look at her 
child, holding it tightly with both hands the next moment 
to the lamp; and Julia read through her tears in a low, 
quick voice: 


Private and confidential. 

“To Mrs. Robert Hallam, formerly Miss Millicent Lut- 
trell,, of King’s Castor, in the County of Lincoln. 

“N. B.— If the lady to whom this'letter is addressed be 
dead, it is to be returned unopened to 
“ Robert Hallam, 

“ 9749, Nulla Nulla Prison, 

“ Port Jackson,” 


THIS MAN'S WIFK 


02 <{ 

“Mrs. Hallam,” said Bayle, in his calm, clear voice, 
“ Sir Gordon and I are going. You would like to be alone! 
Could you bear to see us again— say to-night, in an hour or 
two?” 

“ Yes, yes,” she cried, catching his hand; “ you will come 
back. There ! you see I am calm now. Dear friends, make 
some excuse for me if I seem half mad.” 

Sir Gordon took the hand that Bayle dropped, and kissed 
it respectfully. 

Bayle was holding Julia’s. 

“God help you both, and give you counsel,” he whis- 
pered, half speaking to himself. “Julie, you will help her 
now?” 

“Help her!” panted Julia. “ Why, it is a time of joy, 
Mr. Bayle; and you don’t seem glad.” 

“ Glad I” he said, in a low voice, looking at her wistfully. 
“ Heaven knows how I should rejoice if there were good 
news for both.” 

The next minute he and Sir Gordon were arm-in-arm 
walking about the square; for though Bayle had left the 
place intending to go to his own rooms, Mrs. Hallam’s 
house seemed to possess an attraction for them both, 
and they stayed within sight of the quiet, modest little 
home. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE WIPE SPEAKS. 

Sir Gordon was the first to break the silence, and his 
voice trembled with passion and excitement. 

“The villain!” he said, in* an angry whisper. “How 
dare he write to her? She suffered, but it was a calm and 
patient suffering, softened by time. Now he has torn open 
the wound, to make it bleed afresh, and it will never heal 
again.” 

“ I have lived in an agonizing dread of this night for the 
past ten years,” said Bayle, hoarsely. 

“You?” 

“ Yes, I. Does it seem strange? I have seen her gradu- 
ally growing more restful and happy in the love of her 
child. L have gone on loving that child as if she were my 
own. Was it not reasonable that I should dread the hour 
when that man might come and claim them once again?” 

“But they are not his own!” cried Sir Gordon. “The 
man is socially dead.” 

“ To us and to the land,” said Bayle; “but is the hus- 
band of her young love dead to the heart of such a woman 
as Millicent Hallam?” 


314 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


“Liittrell, man! Luttrell!” cried Sir Gordon, excitedly. 
‘ ‘ Don’t utter his accursed name !’ ’ 

“As Millicent Hallam,” said Bayle, gravely. “She is his 
wife. She will never change. ” 

“ She must be made to change,” cried Sir Gordon, whose 
excitement and anger were in strong contrast to the calm, 
patient suffering of the man upon whose arm he hung heav- 
ily, as they tramped on round and round the circular rail- 
ings within the square. “It is monstrous that he should 
be allowed to disturb her peace, Bayle. Look here! Did 
you say that letter came inclosed to you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then — then you were a fool, man — a fool! You call 
yourself her friend— the friend of that sweet girl?” 

“Their truest, best friend, I hope.” 

“ You call yourself my friend,” continued Sir Gordon, 
in the same angry, unreasoning way, “ and yet you give 
them that letter? You should have sent it back to the 
scoundrel, marked dead. They are dead to him. Bayle, 
you were a fool.” 

“ Do you think so?” he said, smiling and looking round 
at his companion. “My dear sir, is your Christianity at 
so low an ebb that you speak those words?” 

“Now you are beginning to preach to excuse yourself.” 

“No,” replied Bayle, quietly. “ I was only about to 
say, suppose these long years of suffering for his crime 
have changed that man; are we to say there is to be no 
ray of hope in his darkened life?” 

“I can’t argue with you, Bayle,” cried Sir Gordon. 
“Forgive me. I grow old and easily excited. I called 
you a fool; I was the fool. It was misplaced. You are 
not very angry with me?” • 

“My dear old friend!” 

“ My dear boy!” 

Sir Gordon’s voice sounded strange, and something 
wonderfully like a sob was heard. Then foy some time 
they paced on round and round the square, glancing at the 
illumined window-blind, both longing to be back in the 
pleasant little room. 

And now the same feeling that had troubled Bayle 
seemed to have made its way into Sir Gordon’s breast. 
The little home, with its tokens of feminine taste, and 
traces of mother and daughter everywhere, had grown to 
be so delightful an oasis in his desert life that he looked 
with dismay at the chance of losing it forever. 

He knew nothing yet, but that Lome seemed to be gliding 
away. He had not heard the letter read, but a strange 
horror of what it might contain made him shudder for 
what he knew ; and as the future begun to paint terrors 


THIS 3rAN^S WIFE. 215 

without end, he suddenly nipped the arm of his silent, 
thoughtful companion. 

“There, there,” he said, we are thinking about our- 
selves, man.” 

“ No,” said Bayle, in a deep, sad voice, “ I was thinking 
about them.” 

“It’s my belief,” said Sir Gordon, half angrily, “that 
you have gone on all these years past thinking about them. 
But come ! we must act. Tell me about the letter. Do you 
say he wrote to \ou?” 

“Yes.” 

“ But why to you? He must have hated you with all his 
heart. ’ ’ 

“ I believe he did,” replied Bayle. “ Even my love for 
his child was a grievance to him.” 

“And yet he wrote to you, inclosing the letter to his 
wife.” , 

“ I suppose he felt that I should not forsake them in their 
distress; and that whatever changes might have taken 
place, my whereabouts would be known— a clergyman 
Wng easily traced. See?” 

He took another letter from his pocket, and stopped be- 
neath a gas-lamp. 

“ No, no, I cannot read it by this light; tell me what he 
says,” exclaimed Sir Gordon. 

“ The letter is directed to me at King’s Castor, and above 
the direction Hallam has written, ‘ If Mr. Christie Bayle 
has left King’s Castor the postal authorities are requested 
to find his address from the Clerical Directory.’ The peo- 
ple at Castor, of course, knew my address, and sent it on.” 

“ Yes, I see. Well, well, what does he say?” 

Bayle read, in a calm, clear voice, the following letter: 

“ Prison, Nulla Nulla, Port Jackson, 
“Australia, Dec. 9, 18—. 

“ Sir,— You and I were never friends, and in my trouble 
perhaps you were harder on me than you need have been. 
But I always believed you to be a true gentleman, and that 
you liked my wife and child. I can trust no one else but a 
clergyman, being a convict ; but your profession must make 
you ready, like our chaplain here, to hear all our troubles, 
so I write to ask you to help me by placing the letter 
inclosed in my wife’s hands, and in none other’s. It 
is for her sight alone. 

“ I cannot offer to reward you for doing me this service, 
but I ask you to do a good turn to a suffering man, who 
has gone through a deal since you saw him. 

“ Please mark : the letter is to be given to my wife alone, 
or to my child. If they are both dead the letter is to be 


216 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


sent back to me unopened, as I tell you it contains private 
matters, only relating to my wife and me. 

“ I am, Eeverend Sir, 

“Your obedient, humble servant, 

“Robert Hallam, 9749. 

“ To the Reverend Christie Bayle, Curate of King’s 
Castor. ’ ’ 

“ Why, the fellow seems to have grown vulgarized and 
coarse in style. That is not the sort of letter our old man- 
ager would have written. ’ ’ 

“ The handwriting is greatly changed too.” 

“ Of course it is his?” 

“ Oh, yes ; there is no doubt about it. The change is nat- 
ural, if the life the poor wretches lead out there be as bad 
as I have heard.” 

“Ha! I don’t suppose they find them feather-beds, 
Bayle. ’ ’ 

“If half I know be true,” said Bayle, indignantly, “ the 
place is a horror. It is a scandal to our country and our 
boasted Christianity !” 

“What, Botany Bay?” 

“The whole region of the penal settlement.” 

“There, there, Bayle! you are too easy, man! You in- 
fect me. I shall begin to repent of my share in sending 
that fellow out of the country. Let’s get back. We must 
have been out here an hour.” 

“ An hour and a half,” said Bayle, looking at his watch. 
“ Yes, we will ask if they can see us to-night. We will not 
press it if they prefer to be alone.” 

Thisbe must have been in the passage, the door w^as' 
opened so quickly. Her face was harder than ever, and 
the mustache, by the light of the candle upon the bracket, 
looked like a dark line drawn by a smutty finger. There 
was a defiant look, too, in her eyes; but it was evident 
that she had been crying, as she ushered the friends into 
the room where Mrs. Hallam was sitting, with Julia kneel- 
ing at her feet, and resting her arms upon her mother’s 
knees. 

“ Both rose as Bayle and Sir Gordon entered. 

“We only wish to say good-night,” said the latter, apol- 
ogetically. 

“I have been expecting you both for some time,” said 
Mrs. Hallam, calmly ; but it was plain to her friends that 
she was fighting hard to master her emotion. 

Sir Gordon signed to Bayle to speak, but the latter re- 
mained closed of lip, and the silence became most painful. 

Julia looked wistfully at her mother, whose face was 
transfigured by the joy that illumined it once more, though 


THIS iMAN'S WIFE. * 217 

it had no reflection in her child’s face, which was rendered 
sad by the traces of the tears that she had lately shed. 

“Your husband is well?” said Bayle, at last, for Mrs. 
Hallam was looking at him reproachfully. 

“ Yes, oh yes, he is quite well,” she said, proudly; and 
something of her old feeling seemed to come back, for the 
eyes that looked from Sir Gordon to Bayle gave a defiant 
flash. 

“Well?” she said, impatiently, as if weary of waiting to 
be questioned. 

“ Do you wish your friends to know the contents of your 
husband’s letter?” 

“ Yes !” she cried ; “ all that is not of a private nature. ” 

Bayle paused again. Then his lips parted, but no words 
came ; and Sir Gordon saw that there was a tender, yearn- 
ing look in his ej’ es, a pitying expression in his face. 

Then he seemed to recover himself. He moistened his 
feverish lips, and said in a low, pained voice: 

“Then the term of his imprisonment is over? He is 
coming back?” 

“ My poor husband was sentenced to exile for life,” said 
Mrs. Hallam, with her head erect, as if she were defend- 
ing the reputation of a patriot. 

“But he has received pardon?” 

“No. The world is still unjust.” 

Sir Gordon met her eyes full of reproach ; but as she 
gazed at him her features softened, and she took a step 
forward and caught his hand. 

“Forgive my bitterness,” she said, quickly. “It was 
all a grievous error. Only, now that this message has 
come from beyond the seas”— she unconsciously adopted 
the language used a short time before — “the old wound 
seems to be opened, and to bleed afresh.” 

Bayle had uttered a sigh of relief at her words respect- 
ing the injustice of the world, and he waited till Mrs. Hal- 
lam turned to him again. 

“ I wish to be plain — to speak as I should at another 
time, but I am too agitated, too much overcome with the 
great joy that has fallen to me at last — the joy for which I 
have prayed so long. At times it seems a dream — as if I 
were mocked by one of the visions that have haunted my 
nights; but I know it is true. I have his Avords here — 
here!” 

She snatched the letter from her breast, her eyes spark- 
ling and a feverish flush coming into her face, while, as 
she stood there in the softened light shed by the lamp, her 
lips apart, and a glint of her Avhite teeth just seen, it 
seemed to both Bayle and Sir Gordon that the Millicent 
Luttrell of the old days was before them. Even the tones 


218 THIS MAN^S AUFE. 

of her voice had lost their harshness, and sounded mellow 
and round. 

They stood wondering and rapt, noticing the transforma- 
tion, the animated way ; the eager excitement, as of one 
longing to take action, after an enforced sealing up of 
every energy ; and as they stood before her half stunned in 
thought, she seemed to gather the force they lost, and 
mentally towered above them in her words. 

“You ask me of his letter,” she said, at last, half bit- 
terly, but again fighting this bitterness dowm. “I will tell 
jmu what he says to me and to his child.” 

“Yes,” said Bayle, almost mechanically; and in the 
same half -stunned way he looked from her to Julia, who 
stood with her hands clasped and hanging before her, wist- 
ful, troubled, and evidently in pain. 

“Yes, Mrs. Hallam,” said Sir Gordon, for she had sought 
his eyes as she released those of Bayle, “ tell me what he 
says.” 

She paused with the letter in her hands, holding it 
pressed against her bosom. Then raising it slowly, she 
placed it against her lips, and remained silent for what 
seemed an interminable time. 

At last she spoke, and there was a strange solemnity in 
her words as she said, in less deep tones: 

“ It is the voice of the husband and father away beyond 
the wild seas, and there on the other side of the wide world, 
speaking to the Avife and child he loves, and its essence is, 

‘ I am weary of waiting — wife — child — I bid you come.’ ” 

As she spoke, Bayle felt his legs tremble, and he involun- 
tarily caught at a chair, tilting it forward and resting upon 
its back till, as she spoke the last words, he spasmodically 
snatched his hands from the chair, Avhich fell with a heavy 
crash into the grate. 

It Avas not noticed by any there, only by Thisbe, who ran 
to the door in alarm, as Bayle Avas speaking excitedly. 

“No, no. It is impossible. You could not go!” 

“My husband tells me,” continued Mrs. Hallam, gazing 
now at Sir Gordon, Avho seemed to shrink and groAv older 
of aspect than before, “ that after such a long probation as 
his the government haA^e some compassion tOAA^ard the poor 
exiles in their charge; that they extend certain privileges 
to them, and ameliorate their sufferings. That his wife 
and child Avould be alloAved to see him, and that under 
certain restrictions he would be free so long as he did not 
attempt to leave the colony.” 

“It is too horrible!” groaned Sir Gordon to himself, as 
in imagination he saAv the horrors of the penal settlement 
and this gently nurtured Avoman and her child landed 
there. 


This MAN^S WTFBl 


“ I say it is impossible, said Bayle again ; and there was 
firmness and anger combined in his tones. “Mrs. Hallam, 
you must not think of it.” 

“ Not think of it?” she said, sternly. 

“For your own sake, no.” 

“You say this to me, Christie Bayle?” 

“Yes, to you; and if I must bring forward a stronger 
argument — for your child’s sake, you must not go.” 

A look that was half joy, half grief, flashed from Julia’s 
eyes ; and Mrs. Hallam looked to her, and took her hand 
firmly in her own. 

“Will you tell me why, Mr. Bayle,” she said, sternly. 

“I could not. I dare not,” he said, firmly. “Believe 
me though, when I tell you this. As your friend— as 
Julia’s protector, almost foster-father— knowing what I 
do, I have mastered everything possible, from the Govern- 
ment minutes and dispatches, respecting the penal settle- 
ment out there. It is no place for two tender women. 
Mrs. Hallam, it is impossible for you to go.” 

“Again I ask you why?” said Mrs. Hallam, sternly. 

“I cannot — I dare not paint to you what you would 
have to go through,” said Bayle, almost fiercely. 

“Mrs. Hallam,” said Sir Gordon, coming to his aid, 
“what he says is right. Believe me, too. You cannot, 
you must not, go.” 

There was a pause for a few moments, and then Mrs. 
Hallam drew her child more closely to her side. 

“You dare not paint the horrors that await us there, 
Christie Bayle, ’ ’ she then said, in a softened tone. ‘ ‘ There 
is no need. The recital would fall on barren ground. The 
horrors suffered by the husband and father his wife and 
child will gladly dare.” 

' “You cannot. You shall not. For Heaven’s sake, 
pause!” 

“ When my husband bids me come? Dear friend, you 
do not know me yet,” she said, softly. ^ 

“ But, Mrs. Hallam, Millicent, my child!” cried Sir Gor-' 
don,” imploringly. 

“ I cannot listen to your appeals,” she said, in a grieved 
tone, and with the tears at last gushing from her aching 
eyes. 

“ Ah.” cried Bayle,. excitedly, “she is giving way. Mil- 
licent Luttrell, for your own, for your child’s sake, you 
will stay.” 

She rose up proudly once more. 

“Millicent Hallam and her child will go.” 

Sir Gordon made an imploring movement. 

“ It is to obtain his release, Julie, my child,” said Mrs. 
Hallam, in a tender voice, “the release of our long-suffer- 


220 


THm MAN^S WIFK. 


ing martyr. What say you? He calls to us from beyond 
the seas to come and help him — what must we do?” 

Again there was a painful silence in that room, every 
breath seemed to be held till Julia said, in a low, dreamy 
voice : 

” Mother, we must go.” 

As she ended, a faint sigh escaped her lips, and she sunk 
as if insensible upon her mother’s breast. 

“Yes,” cried Millicent Hallam, gazing straight before 
her, ‘ ‘ were the world a hundred times as wide. ’ 


CHAPTER VI. 

IN H ER SERVICE. 

No, not even to Julia— his own child— for that part of the 
letter was a commission for her alone to execute. After 
all these long years of absence he sent her his commands— 
he, the dear husband of her first love. 

And, oh! the joy, the intense delight of being able at last 
to execute his wishes, to work and strive for him, following 
out his most minute commands. 

It was a long letter, containing few words of affection ; but 
those she found studded through the ill-written pages, that 
seemed to have been the work of one who had not touched 
pen for years — a word that bore a loving guise, shining 
brightly here and there, as Millicent kissed it with all the 
fervor of a girl. 

He said that he had not heard from her all these years, 
and that she might have written ; that he had had to suf- 
fer fearful hardships, which he would not inflict upon her, 
though he was explicit enough to draw agonized tears from 
the loving woman’s eyes; that he had had much to endure, 
mentally and bodily ; that his health had been often bad ; 
and so on, right through the greater portion of the letter. 

It never struck the patient wife that Hallam barely al- 
luded to her, or suggested that she must have suffered ter- 
ribly during his long absence. He had left her absolutely 
penniless, after ruining her father and mother, but here 
was his first letter, and there was not an allusion to how 
she had managed to struggle on for all this time— how had 
she lived? what had she done? how had she managed to 
keep her child ? ^ 

Not a word of this kind, but it did not trouble the woman 
who knew all his pains and sufferings by heart, for she 
was hungering for news of him to whom she had blindly 
given herself, and the letter was full of that. 

She did not wish to bathe her sorrowing face in the fount 
of her own tears, but in the fount of his, and she greedily 
drank in every word and allusion, making each the text 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


231 


^vhich she mentally expanded in the silence of the night, 
till she seemed to be reading the complete history of her 
husband’s life for the past twelve years. 

Certainly he hoped she was quite well, and that little 
Julie was the same. He supposed she would be so grown 
that he should hardly know her again, but he hoped she 
would not have forgotten him. 

He made but little allusion to his sentence. And here 
perhaps Millicent Hallam felt a little disappointed, for he 
dealt in no severe strictures against those who had caused 
his punishment, neither did he reiterate his innocence. 
He rnerely said that he supposed Australia would always 
be his home now; and that she was to part with every- 
thing she possessed, take passage in the first ship with 
Julie and come and join him at once — he would explain 
their future when she came. 

No word about the old people either; or the repugnance 
wife and child might feel to leaving home to go to a 
strange land to join a convict father— not a word of this, 
for they were his wife and child. He wanted them and he 
bade them come. 

Millicent Hallam knew that the letter was selfish in the 
extreme, but it was the kind of selfishness that elated her, 
and filled her with joy. 

He was innocent; he had suffered in silence a very 
martrydom all these years; but she was still the one 
woman in the world to him, and he had turned to her to 
bid her come and chase away the cares of a cruel life. 

Blindly infatuated, strong, and yet weak as a girl ; fool- 
ish in her trust in an utterly heartless and selfish scoun- 
drel; but how loving! Her young heart had opened like a 
flower at the breath of his love. He had been the sun 
that had warmed it with that wondrous new life, and it 
wanted something far stronger than occasional harshness, 
neglect, or the charges of man against man, to tear out 
the belief that had fast rooted itself in Millicent Hallam’s 
nature. 

Blame — pity — what you will, and then thank God that 
in spite of modern society Avays, follies of fashion, errors 
of education, weakness, A^anity, and the hundred biasing 
influences, the world abounds Avith such loving, trusting 
women, always has done so, and always will to the end. 

One great joy seemed to take ten years from her life as 
she read and reread that letter to herself and to Julie, Avho 
became infected by her mother’s enthusiasm, and at last 
believed that she was gladdened by the news, and sobbed 
in secret, she knew not Avhy, as she thought of the time of 
parting I 

But there was that one portion of the letter separated by 


223 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


two broad lines, ruled evidently with the pen drawn along 
the side of an old book, the rough edges showing where the 
point of a spluttering quill-pen dipped in coaT'se ink had 
followed each irregularity. 

Here are the lines that Robert Hallam emphasized by a 
few warning words at the beginning, telling her that they 
were of vital importance: 

“ And mind this : by carefidly and secretly foUoivmg out 
my instructions, you icill free your husband from this 
wretched, degraded life.'''' 

Could she want a greater impulse than that last to make 
her dwell upon his words, and prepare herself to follow 
them out to the letter? 

‘'He may trust me,” she said, with a smile, as she care- 
fully cut these instructions out of the letter, gummed them 
upon a piece of paper, and doubling this, carefully hid it 
in her purse. 

There was a poignant feeling of pity and remorse in 
Millicent Hallam’s breast the next morning when, in spite 
of the way in which her heart was filled with the thoughts 
of their coming journey, the recollection of Christie Bayle’s 
tender care for them both pierced its way in like some keen 
point. 

“I cannot help it,” she cried, passionately. ” It is my 
duty, and he will soon forget us.” 

But when he of whom she thought came that morning, 
looking grave and pale, her heart reproached her more 
and more, for she knew that he was not of the kind to for- 
get. This knowledge influenced her words and the tone of 
her voice, as she laid her hand in his, and then passed her 
arm round Julia. 

“Once more,” she said, with a sad smile, “you are 
going in your unselfishness to help me, Christie Bayle.” 

“Are you still determined?” he said, with a slight tre- 
mor in his voice, which grew firm directly, even stern. 

“Yes!” 

“ Have you thought of the peril of the voyage for your- 
self and for Julie here?” 

“Yes, of everything.” 

“The wild, strange life out yonder; >our future— have 
you thought of this?” 

“Yes, yes!” said Millicent Hallam, calmly. “ Can you 
ask me these questions, and at such a time?” 

Christie Bayle remained silent, looking stern and cold ; 
but it was a mere mask. He could not trust himself to 
speak, lest he should grow by turns piteous of appeal, 
angry and denunciatory of manner, so fully did he realize 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


228 


the horrors of the fate to Avhich this man’s wife in her 
blind faith Avas hurrying. 

“ Do not think me ungrateful, dear friend,” she contin- 
ued. “I cannot tell you how in my heart of hearts the 
truest gratitude dwells for all that you have done. Chris- 
tie ! brother ! I am again in terrible distress. This once 
more you will be my help and stay?” 

She approached and took his hand, raising it to her lips, 
feeling startled it was so icily cold. 

But the next moment a change came over him, his stern- 
ness seemed to melt, his old manner to come back, as he 
said, gently: 

” You know that you have only to speak and I shall do 
all you wish ; but let us sit down, and talk calmly and dis- 
passionately about this letter. There, I will be only the 
true, candid friend. I do not attempt to fight against your 
present feeling; I only ask you to wait, to give the matter 
quiet consideration for a few days. It seems impertinent 
of me to speak of rashness; but before you decide to give 
up your little home ” 

“"Hush,” said Mrs. Hallam, firmly; and the bright light 
in her daughter’s eyes died out. “Do not speak to me like 
this. No consideration, no time could change me. Christie 
Bayle, think for a moment. For twelve long years I have 
been praying for this le^tter; from niy heart I felt it hope- 
less to expect my husband’s pardon. Noav the letter has 
come, you ask me to Avait— to consider— to give up this 
plan — to refuse to obey these commands. Of what kind do 
you think my love for my husband?” 

Bayle drew a long breath, and remained silent for quite 
a minute, while Julia watched him with a strange Avrink- 
ling of her broad, fair brow. The silence Avas painful, but 
at last he broke it, speaking as if the question had been that 
moment put. 

“ As of the love of a true AAufe. Yes, I Avill help you to 
the end. Tell me what you wish me to do?” 

Julia turned aAvay her face, for the tears were falling 
softly down her cheeks, but they were not seen by the other 
occupants of the room. 

“ I knew I could count upon you,” said Mrs. Hallam, ea- 
gerly, and as if in hot haste. “I knoAv it will be a bitter 
pang to part from where I have spent these— yes, happy 
years; but it is our duty, and I will not waste an hour. I 
am only a helpless woman, Mr. Bayle, and so I must look 
to you.” 

lie nodded quickly. 

“My husband bids me part Avith everything that re- 
mains of my little property.” 

“ Did he say that?” said Bayle, dryly. 


224 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“He said, ‘Part with everything, take passage in the 
first ship, and come and join me.’ ” 

Bayle nodded. 

“ Then we shall pack up just suflBcient necessaries for 
our voyage, Jnlie and I; and every thing else must be sold. 
I shall realize enough to pay our passage from my furni- 
ture.” 

“ Oh, yes, certainly,” said Bayle, quickly; “and you will 
have to spare.” 

“ And the ship; what am I to do? Oh! here is Sir Gor 
don, he will know.” 

There was the tap of the ebony cane upon the pavement, 
a well-known knock, and, looking very wrinkled and care- 
worn, Sir Gordon came in, glancing suspiciously from one 
to the other. 

“Not the time to call, perhaps. I’m not Bayle here; but 
I’ve not had a wink of sleep all night, thinking of that 
confounded letter, and so I came up at once to tell you, my 
dears, that it’s all confounded madness. He — he must be 
out of his mind to propose it. ITl— I’ll do anything! I’ll 
see the secretary of state ! I’ll try for a remission —a par- 
don! but you two girls — you children— you cannot, you 
shall not, go out there!” 

Mrs. Hallam’s eyes flashed at this renewed opposition; 
but she crossed to the old man, took his hand, and led him 
to a chair by the window, where she began talking to him 
earnestly, while Bayle turned to Julia. 

“ And so you are going?” he said, tenderly. 

She gave him one quick look, and then said : 

“ Yes; it is my father’s wish.” 

Bayle gazed down at her sweet face, then wildly about 
the room, as memories of hundreds of happy lessons and 
conversations flowed back. Then his lips tightened, his 
brow smoothed, and he said, in a cold, hard way: 

“ The path of duty seems difficult at times, Julie, but we 
must tramp it without hesitating. ’ ’ 

“And you, too, will help me?” Mrs. Hallam said aloud. 

“Any way, in anything,” said Sir Gordon, sadly. “I 
would sail you both over in my yacht, but it would be mad- 
ness to expose you to the risk. Yes; I’ll do the best I can 
to get you a passage in a good ship. Yes— yes— yes ! ITl 
do my best.” 

He looked at Bayle in a troubled way, but found no sym- 
pathy in the cold, stern face that seemed to be unchanged 
when they left together an hour later, each pledged to do 
his best to expatriate two tender women, and to send them 
to what was then a wilderness of misery— and worse. 

“It must be, I suppose, Bayle, my dear boy?” said Sir 
Gordon. 


THIS MANX'S WIFK, 


2^5 


“ Yes; it must be,” was the repl}'. 

“I’m glad she says she will go down to Castor first and 
stay a few days with the old people. ’ ’ 

”Did she say that?” 

“Yes. It made me wonder whether she eould be per- 
suaded to leave Julie with them.” 

”No,” said Bayle, firmly; ” they would never part, be- 
cause he has ordered her to bring their child.” 

“Yes; I saw that. Ah, Bayle, it’s a bad business; but 
we must make the best of it. Confound it all ! why am I 
worrying myself about other people’s troubles? Here am 
I, an old man, with plenty of money and nothing to do but 
take care of myself and make myself happy, and live as 
long as I can. I say, why am I pestered with other 
people’s troubles.” 

Bayle smiled sadly, and laid one hand upon that which 
rested upon his arm. 

“Simply because you are a true man; that is all.” 

They parted soon afterward. Sir Gordon to visit a friend 
in Whitehall, Bayle to speak to an auctioneer about the 
furniture and effects at the little house, giving orders to 
sell his own property to supply the funds for the voyage, 
and then to make a supposed further sale of funds to real- 
ize the capital which Millicent Hallam honestly believed 
to be her own. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE OLD HOME. 

Millicent Hallam was closely veiled as she descended 
from the coach at the inn door, while Julia’s handsome 
young face was free for the knot of gossips of the little 
town to notice, as they clustered about as of old to see 
who came in the coach and who were going on. 

A quiet, drab-looking man had just handed a basket to 
the guard and was turning away, when he caught sight of 
Julia’s face and stopped suddenly. 

“ Bless my soul, Mrs. Hallam ! Oh, I beg your pardon !” 
he stammered; “I thought— why, it must be Miss— and 
Mr. Bayle; I— I really— I ” 

He could not speak. The tears stood in his eyes, and he 
stood there shaking away at both of Christie Bayle’s 
hands for some moments before he became aware of 
Millicent Hallam’s presence. 

“ Only to think,” he cried ; “ but come along.” 

“We are going up to the doctor’s,” said Bayle. 

“Yes, yes, you shall; but pray come into my place- 
only for a minute. My wife will be so— so very pleased to 
'see Ah, my dear, how you have grown!” 


THIS MAH'S WIFE. 


sse 

James Thickens had become aware that his eccentric be- 
havior was exciting attention, so he hurried the visitors 
up to his house. 

“Your people are quite well, Mrs. Hallam,” he said, 
hardly noticing that there was a curious distance in her 
manner toward him. “They’re not expecting you, for 
the doctor was in the bank this morning, and he would 
have been sure to tell me.” 

Mrs. Hallam could not speak. She had felt so strength- 
ened by tribulation, so hardened by trouble, that she had 
told herself that she could visit King’s Castor and her old 
home without emotion; but as she alighted from the coach, 
the sight of the place and their house brought back so 
vividly the troubles of the past, and her misery as Robert 
Hallam’s wife, that her knees trembled, and but for Julia’s 
arm she could hardly have gone on. 

“Be brave,” whispered a voice at her ear as Thickens 
prattled on. “ This is not like you.” 

She darted a grateful look through her veil at Christie 
Bayle, almost wondering at the same time that he should 
have noticed her emotion. Once she glanced back toward 
their old house; and her heart gave a throb as she saw that 
there was a painted board upon the front, which could only 
mean one thing— that it was to let. 

All feeling of distance and coldness was chased away as 
Thickens opened the door and let them in to where a 
plump, pleasant-looking, little, elderly lady was sitting 
busily knitting, and so changed from the Miss Heathery 
they had all known that Bayle gazed at her wonderingly. 

The plump little body started up excitedly and then 
dropped back in her chair, turning white and then red. 
She gasped, and pressed her hands upon her sides, and 
then looked up helplessly. ' 

“Why, don’t you know who it is?” cried Thickens, with 
boisterous hospitality in his tones. 

“Know? Yes, James, I know; but what a turn it has 
given me! My dear— my darling!— ah, I— I— I— I am so 
glad to see you again.” 

The little woman had recovered herself and had caught 
Mrs. Haklamto her breast, rocking her to and fro and cling- 
ing to her so affectionately that Millicent’s tears began to 
liow. 

Bayle turned aside, moved by the warmth of the faith- 
ful little woman’s affection, when he felt a dig in his side 
from an elbow. 

“Come and have a look at my gold-fish, Mr. Bayle,” 
said a husky voice ; and with true delicacy Thickens hur- 
I'ind him out, and along his rose-path to where the gold 
uiid silver fish were basking in the spring afternoon sun. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


2^7 

“Let them have their cry out togetliei%” he whispered. 
“ My little woman worships Mrs. Hallam. There isn’t a 
day but what she talks about her, and I’d promised to take 
her up to town this summer to see her again.” 

Meantime little Mrs. Thickens had left Mrs. Hallam to 
make wet spots all over Julia’s cheeks as she kissed and 
fondled her. 

“My beautiful darling,” she sobbed; “and grown so 
like — oh, so like— and— and — oh! if I had only known.” 

The reception was so strange, the little lady’s ways so 
droll, that, in spite of the weariness of her journey and 
the trouble hanging over her young life. Julia had felt 
amused ; but the next moment she was clinging to little 
Mrs. Thickens, warmly returning her embrace and feeling 
a girlish delight in the affectionate caresses showered upon 
her by her mother’s simple old friend. 

The stay was but short, for Millicent Hallam was trem- 
bling to see her old home and those she loved once more. 

How little changed all seemed! A dozen years liad 
worked no alterations. The old shops, the old houses, just 
the same. 

Yes, there was one change; Mr. Gemp sitting at his 
door, not standing, and with movement left apparently in 
one part only— his head, which turned toward them, witli 
a fixed look, as they went down the street, and turned and 
followed them till they were out of sight. 

“How I recollect it all,” whispered Julia, as she held 
her mother’s arm. “That old man who used to make 
Thisbe so cross. Walk more quickly, mamma, he is call- 
ing out our name to some one.” 

It was true; and, as the Avords seemed to pursue them, 
Julia uttered an angry ejaculation, as she heard a sob 
escape from her mother’s breast. 

“Hi! Gorringe, here’s that shack Hallam’s wife come 
down. Quick ! dost ta hear?” 

Bayle had stayed behind with Thickens to alloAv his 
traveling companion to go to the cottage alone, or these 
words might not have been uttered. 

And as they appeared to come hissing through the air, 
Millicent Hallam seemed to realize more and more how 
Bayle had been their protector, and how she had done 
wisely in fleeing from the little town, Avhere every flaw in 
a man’s life Avas noted and remembered to the end. 

“How dare he?” cried Julia, indignantly; and her young 
eyes flashed. “ Mother, Ave ought not to have come down 
here.” 

“Hush, my child!” said Mrs. Hallam, softly; “ Avho are 
we that we cannot bear patiently a few revolting words? 
If we Avere guilty, there Avould be a sting left.” 


228 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


The episode was forgotten as they passed out of the 
town, and along the pleasant road, nearer and nearer to 
the sweet old home. For Millicent Hallam’s breath came 
more quickly. She threw back her veil ; her eyes bright- 
ened, and her pale cheeks flushed. 

There it all U'as, unchanged. The great hedges, the 
yews, the shrubs, and the pleasant rose and creeper covered 
cottage, with its glittering windows, and door beneath the 
rustic porch, open as if to give them welcome. 

“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Julia, eagerly, and her voice 
sounding full of excitement; “I am beginning to remember 
it all again so well. I know, yes — the gate fastening in- 
side. ITl undo it. Up this path, and grandpapa used to 
be busy there by his frames— round past the big green 
hedge, where grandmamma’s seat used to be, so that she 
could watch him while he was at work. And I used to run 
— and, oh! yes, yes, there! Grandpa! grandpa! here we 
are.” 

Had the past twelve years dropped away? Millicent 
Hallam asked herself, as, seeing all dimly through a veil of 
tears, she heard Julia’s words, excited, broken, with all a 
child’s surging excitement and delight, as she ran from her 
side across the little lawn to where that gray little old lady 
sat beneath the yew-hedge, to swoop down upon her, fold- 
ing her in one quick caress, and then, before she had re- 
covered from her surprise, darting away, and off the path, 
over the newly-dug ground, to where that gray old gentle- 
man dropped the hoe with which he was drawing a furrow 
for his summer marrowfats. 

The twelve years had dropped from Julia’s mind for the 
time, and, a child once more, she was clinging to and kiss- 
ing the old man, with whom she returned to where her 
mother was kneeling, locked in Mrs. Luttrell’s arms. 

“ The dear, dear, dear old place!” cried Julia, with child- 
like ecstasy. “Grandpa, grandma, we’ve come down to 
stay, and we must never leave you again.” 

. She stopped, trembling, her beautihil eyes dilated, and a 
feeling of chilling despair clutching at her heart, as her 
mother turned her ghastly face toward her, and her name 
seemed to float to her ears and away into the distance, in 
a cry that was like a wail of a stricken, desolate heart. 

“ Julia!” 

“ Mother, dearest mother, forgive me!” she cried, as she 
threw herself upon her knees, sobbing as if her heart 
would break. “ I did not think; I had forgotten all.” 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


229 


CHAPTER VIII. 

JULIA SEEMS STRANGE. 

It was as if that forlorn cry uttered by Millicent Hallam 
pervaded their visit to the old home. It was a happy re- 
union, but how full of pain ! Joy and sorrow were hand- 
in-hand. It was life in its greatest truth. 

The sweet, peaceful old home, with its garden in the 
early livery of spring ; the fragrance of the opening leaves ; 
the delicious odor of the earth, after the soft rain that had 
fallen in the night; the early flowers, all so bright, in the 
clear country air, to those who had been pent up in town; 
while clear ringing, and each tuned to that wondrous pitch 
that thrills the heart in early spring, there were the notes 
of the birds, 

Millicent Hallam’s eyes closed, as she stood in that gar- 
den, clasping her child’s hand in hers, and listening to 
each love-tuned call. The thrush that; now soft, mellow, 
and so sweet that the tears came, there was the blackbird’s 
pipe. Then again, from overhead, that pleasant little 
sharp “ pink, pink ” of the chaffinch, followed by its mu- 
sical treble, as of liquid gems falling quickly into glass. 
While far above in the clear blue sky, softened by the dis- 
tance, came the lark’ s song, a song she had not listened to 
for a dozen years. 

“For the last time, for the last time, good-bye, dear 
home, good-bye!” 

“ Mother!” 

“Did I speak?” said Millicent, starting. 

“Speak!” cried Julia, excitedly. “Oh, mother, dear 
mother, your words seemed so strange ; they almost break 
my heart.” 

“ Hearts do not break, Julie,” said Mrs. Hallam, softly. 
“ They can bear so much, my darling, so much.” 

‘ ‘ But you spoke as if you never thought to see this dear 
old place again.” 

“Did I, my child?” said Mrs. Hallam, dreamily, as she 
gazed wistfully round. “Well, who knows? who knows? 
Life cannot be all joy, and we must be prepared for 
change.” 

“ And we must go, mother, away — to that place?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hallam, sternly, and she drew herself 
up, and seemed as if she were trying to harden her heart 
against the weakness of her child. 

It had been a painful meeting, over which Mrs. Luttrell 
had broken down, while the old doctor had stood with quiv- 
ering lip. 


230 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

“ I can’t say a word, my child. I could only beg and 
pray of you to stay,” he had said. 

“ And tear and wring my heart anew, dear father,” Mil- 
licent had said in return, Avith many a tender caress. 

Then the old people had pleaded that J ulia might re- 
main ; and there had been another painful scene, and the 
night of their coming had been indeed a mingling of joy 
and sorrow. 

Bayle had been up to sit with them for a short time in the 
evening: but with kindly delicacy he had left soon, and at 
last sleep had given some relief to the sorrow -stricken 
hearts in the old home. 

Then had come the glorious spring morning, and stealing 
through the garden, mother and child had felt their hearts 
lifted by the mysterious influence of the budding year, till 
OA^er all, like a cloud, came Millicent’s farewell to the home 
she Avould never see again. 

Prophetic and true — or the false imaginings of a sorrow- 
charged brain? Who could say? 

The stay was to be but short, for they returned that 
night by the coach which passed through, as it had gone 
on passing since that ni^ht when the agonized wife had sat 
watching for the neAvs from the assize toAvn. 

“ It will be better so,” Millicent Hallam had said. “It 
will be less painful to my dear ones in the old home, and 
Julie. Christie Bayle, I could not bear this strain for 
long. We must finish and away. He is Avaiting for us 
now,” 

About midday Bayle came up to the cottage, quiet and 
grav^e as ever, but with a smile for Julie, as she hurried to 
meet him, Millicent coming moresloAvly behind. 

“I have brought the &ys,” he said. “I found they 
were in Mr. Thickens’ charge. May I give you a word of 
advice?” 

“Always,” said Mrs. Hallam, smiling; but he noticed 
that she was deadly pale. 

“I would not stay there long. I understand the feeling 
that prompts you to visit the old home again. See it and 
come away, for it must be full of painful memories; and 
now you must be firm and strong. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, yes,” she said, quickly. “You will stay here?” 

“ Certainly,” he said, gravely. 

“You are going out?” said Julia. 

“ I must see our old home before I go,” said Mrs. Hal- 
lam, in a sharp, nervous manner, 

“And I may go witli you, dear?” pleaded Julia. 

“No, I must go alone,” said her mother, in a strained, 
imperious tone. ‘ ‘ Stay here. ’ ’ 

For answer, Julia shrunk back, but only for a moment. 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


231 


Then her arms were round her mother’s neck, and she 
kissed her, saying: 

“ Remember Mr. Bayle’s advice, dear. Come back 
soon.” 

Mrs. Hallam kissed her tenderly, nodded, and hurried 
into the house. 

Ten minutes later, as Julia was seated in the little old 
drawing-room at the tinkling old square piano, and Bayle 
was leaning forward watching her hands, with his arms 
resting upon his knees, thinking— thinking of the boyish 
curate who, in that very place, had told of his first passion, 
and then gone heart-broken away, there w^as a quick step 
on the gravel, and he turned to see the dark, graceful 
figure of the wmman he had loved, her face closely veiled, 
and her traveling sachel upon her arm, pass through the 
gate, which closed with a sharp click. 

” To stand face to face wuth the ghosts of* her early mar- 
ried life,” he said, in a low voice. “Heaven be merciful 
and soften Thou her fate. ’ ’ 

He started, for as but a short time since Julia had heard 
her mother’s audible thoughts she had now heard his; and 
she w^as standing before him, pale and with her hands 
clasped as she looked in his care-lined face. 

“ Julia— my child!” he said, wonderingly. 

“ I cannot bear it — I cannot bear it,” she cried, bursting 
into a passionate fit of sobbing; and she fled from the room. 

CHAPTER IX. 

THE STRANGE QUEST. 

“ She be going to look over the owd house again, Gor- 
ringe,” shouted Gemp, as he watched the dark veiled 
figure. “You mark my words; they’re a-coming back, 
and he’ll be keeping bank ; and the sooner thou teks out 
tky money the better.” 

There was a strange echo in the place that made a 
shudder run through Millicent Hallam’ s frame as she 
turned the key ; but she had nerved herself to her task, 
and though ha'nds and brow were damp, she did not hesi- 
tate, but went in. 

A quick glance told her that a couple of score pairs of 
eyes were watching her movements, but for that she was 
prepared, and, taking out the key, she inserted it in the 
inside of the lock, closed the door, and slipped one of the 
rusty bolts. 

“ 1 must be firm,” she muttered, as she glanced round 
the empty hall, shuddering as she recalled the scene on 
that night, and seeming to see once more the crowd— the 
fire— her husband struggling for his life. 


232 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“I will not think,” she cried, stamping her foot, and 
placing her hands to her eyes, as if to shut out the terrible 
recollections; and an echo ran through the place, and 
seemed to run from room to room and die away in the 
great attic where Julia used to play. 

No; she had not come to stand face to face with the 
ghosts of past memories; she had driven them away. She 
did not go into the old paneled dining-room, where she 
had watched for such long hours for her husband’s re- 
turn, neither did she turn the handle to enter the melan- 
choly, cobweb hung drawing-room, or note that the papers 
in the chambers were soiled, and faded, and different, and 
that the damp made some hang in festoons from the cor- 
ners, and other pieces fold right over and peel down from 
the wall. 

No ; she paused for none of these ; but, as if moved by 
some strong impulse, ran right up to the top of the house, 
and stood in the great attic lumber-room, brightly lit by a 
skylight, and a dormer at the further end. 

Then, with her heart beating quickly, she took from her 
bosom the portion she had cut from Hallam’s letter and 
read it in a low, hoarse voice: 

“Go to Castor if you have left there, and get possession 
of the old house for a day if it is empty. If not, you must 
get there by some excuse that your woman’s wit may find. 
As a last resource, take it, and buy the tenant out at any 
cost, but get there. Go alone, and take with you a ham- 
mer and screw driver. Shut yourself up securely in the 
place, and then go up-stairs to the attic where we kept the 
old lumber. There, on the right hand side of the fireplace, 
in the built-up Avail, just one root from the floor, and right, 
in the center, drive in the screw- driver with the hammer 
and chip away the plaster. Do not fail. You will find 
there a little recess carefully plastered and papered over. 
In that recess is a small locked tin box. Take it out, and 
bring it to me unopened. That box contains papers of 
vital importance to me, for they will set me free. 

“ Read above again. Strike in the screw-driver boldly, 
for the box is there, and I charge you, my wife, to bring it 
safely and untouched to me, 

“Once more, this must be secretly done. No one must 
know but you. If it were known, I might not succeed in 
getting free.” 

Millicent Hallam thrust the paper back in her bosom, 
and stood there in that unoccupied room with a strange 
buzzing in her ears, and films floating before her eyes. 

“ I am choking,” she gasped ; “ water— air.” 

She reeled, and seemed about to fall, 6ut by a supreme 


THm MAN\^ WIFK. m 

effort she forced her tottering way to the dormer window, 
opened it, and the fresh air recovered her. 

“Oh, for strength, strength!” she gasped, as she clung 
to the sill. “It is for his freedom, to save him, I am 
come. ’ ’ 

Her words gave her the force, and looking down, she 
saw that her act had been observed by those who watched 
the house. 

That gave her additional strength, and, with a look of 
contempt, she closed the window, and was calm. Quickly 
opening her bag, she took from it a stout, short hammer 
and a short screw-driver. 

“ I must risk the noise,” she said, as she drew off her 
gloves, and then noting the spot described in the direc- 
tions, she found the paper ready to peel off on being 
touched, and placing the screw- driver just where she had 
been told, she struck the end sharply, and stopped, trem- 
bling, for the blow resounded throughout the house. 

The cold sweat gathered on her face, and she began to 
tremble ; but smiling at her fears, she doubled her gloves, 
held them on the top of the screw- driver, and struck again 
and again, driving the chisel-end right into the plaster, 
through which, after a blow or two, it passed, and her 
heart throbbed, for there was the hollow place behind, 
just as the letter said. 

At that moment there was a loud sound without, as of a 
blow upon the front door, and she stopped, trembling, to 
listen. 

No; it was the jolt of a heavy-laden springless cart, 
and as it rattled over the cobble-stones, she struck again 
and again with quick haste at the plaster, and then, 
wrenching, tore out piece after piece till she could thrust 
in her hand, to utter a cry of joy, for she touched a tin 
box. 

The rest was the work of a few minutes. She had only 
to enlarge the hole a little, and then she could draw out 
that of which she was in search-- a black, dust-covered tin 
box about the width and depth of an ordinary brick, but 
a couple or three inches longer. 

Her hands were scratched and bleeding, and covered 
with lime, but she did not heed that in her excitement. 
Raising the box to her lips, she kissed it, and taking out 
her kerchief, wiped from it the dust. Then she asked her- 
self the question, what should she do next, now that the 
treasure, the sacred papers that should prove her hus- 
band’s innocence, was found? It was easy enough. The 
box was light, as one containing papers would be, and 
would just pass into her traveling-sachel. That was soon 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


m 

done and the strings drawn. Then there were the ham- 
mer and screw- driver. 

She looked around. There was a loose board close by, 
easily lifted, and down beneath this she tlu’ust the ham- 
mer, while a rat-hole at the base of the wall invited oc- 
cupation for the screw-driver. 

The plaster? The wall? She could do nothing there. 
It was impossible to hide that, and she stood trembling 
again. But who Avould suspect her, if any one came? 
She glanced at herself, brushed off a few scraps of plaster, 
and put on her gloves over her bleeding hands. A thought 
struck her: she might lock the door of the attic. 

Again she started, for there was a sound below, a loud 
rat-rat at the front door, and she stood with her heart 
beating horribly till she heard the sound of racing foot- 
steps and a burst of children’s laughter. Some mischiev- 
ous urchins had knocked at the door of the empty house. 

Forcing herself to be calm again, Millicent Hallam felt 
the box in her bag, and asked herself whether she had 
fully obeyed her husband’s command and succeeded. 
Was this the box? She repeated the directions with her 
eyes fixed upon the spot from whence she had extracted it. 
Yes; there could be no mistake, she must be right, and, 
lowering her veil, she passed out of the attic with its lit- 
tered floor, closed and locked the door, took out the key, 
and descended as if in a dream to the hall, where she 
paused to satisfy herself that her dress showed no traces 
of her work, and that the box was safely hidden. 

All was right, and she drew a long breath. 

And now once more came the tremor and faintness ; the 
memories of the old place seemed to be crowding round 
her; and in the agony of her heart she felt that she would 
faint and perhaps ail would be discovered. She fought 
this down, and another horror assailed her. She had come 
there like a thief ; she had broken open part of the house 
and stolen this case which she was bearing away, and she 
trembled like a leaf. But once more her womanhood and 
faith asserted themselves. 

“His papers, his own hiding, in our own house,” she 
said, proudly. “Robert, husband, I have them safe. I 
will bear them to you over the sea.” 

Opening the door with a firm hand, she passed out, the 
soft, pure air reviving her, and she- started, for a well- 
known voice said : 

“I will close the door for you, Mrs. Hallam. Forgive 
me for coming. You have been so long I had grown un- 
easy.” 

“Long?” she said, looking at Bayle, wildly. 


THIS ilfAN'S WIFE. 


235 


“Yes; time passes quickly when we are deep in thought. 
It is two hours since you left me at the cottage.” 

It had seemed to her but a few minutes’ wild, exciting 
search. 


CHAPTER X. I 

KINDLY ACTS. 

Tom Porter had a way of his own when he was puzzled 
as to his course, and that was to go to the door and' keep a 
bright lookout, in other words, follow oldGemp’s example, 
and stare up and down the street until he had attained a 
correct idea as to which way he had better steer. 

He had been looking thoughtfully out for about an hour 
on this particular night before he came to the conclusion 
that he knew the right way. But once determined, he en- 
tered, and, closing the door softly, he stopped for a min- 
ute to pull himself together, rearranging his necktie, pull- 
ing down his vest, and carefully fastening the top and bot- 
tom buttons, which had a rollicking habit of working 
themselves clear of their respective holes. His hair, too, 
required a little attention, being carefully smoothed with 
his fingers. This done, he mo^tened his hands, as if about 
to haul a rope, before going straight up to where his mas- 
ter was seated in front of the fire, which the cool spring 
night made comfortable, and as, he sat there, gazing very 
thoughtfully in between the bars : 

“ Well, Tom, what is it?” 

“Been a- thinking, Sir Gordon— hard.” 

“Well, what about?” 

“’Bout you. Sir Gordon. It’s these here east winds 
getting into your bones again; and if I might be so 
bold ’ ’ 

“There, there, man, don’t stand hammering and stam- 
mering like that ! You want to say something. Say it.” 

’Bout the east wind. Sir Gordon, and whether you 
wouldn’t think it as well to take a trip.” 

“Yes, yes, man, I’m going on one — Mediterranean — in a 
few days,” said the old man, dreamily. 

‘ ‘ Glad to hear it, Sir Gordon ; but, if I might make so 
bold, why not make a longer trip?” 

“ Not safe— yacht not big enough, my man. There, that 
will do; I want to think.” 

“I mean aboard ship, Sir Gordon. Why shouldn’t we 
go as far as Australia? We’ve seen a deal of the world, 
Sir Gordon, but we haven’t been there.” 

Tom Porter’s master gave him a peculiar look, and then 
nodded toward the door, when the man made a nautical 
bow, gave a very apologetic smile, and backed out. 


236 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


“Went a bit too nigh the rocks that time. It warn’ t 
like me — but, why! what a man will do when there is a 
woman in the way !” 

He had hardly settled himself in his pantry when the 
bell rang, and he went up, expecting a severe talking to. 

“Means a wigging!” he said, arS he went up slowly, to 
find Sir Gordon pacing the room. 

Tom Porter did not know it, but his words had fallen 
just at that time when his master was pondering upon the 
possibility of such a trip, and, though he would not have 
owned to it, his man’s words had turned the balance. 

“Pack up at once,” he said. 

“ Long cruise or short, Sir Gordon?” 

“Long.” 

“Ay, ay, Sir Gordon. Special dispatches. Sir Gordon?” 

“ No; longer cruise than usual, that’s all.” 

“He’s going! I’d bet ten hundred thousand pounds 
he’s going!” said Tom Porter; “and I’m done for! She 
was a bit more easy last time we met ; and I shall make a 
fool o’ myself, I know I shall.” 

He stood in the middle of his pantry, turning his right 
and left hands into a pestle and mortar, and grinding some- 
thing invisible therein.v Then, after a long silence : 

“It’s fate, that’s about w4iat it is!” said Tom Porter; 
“ and that’s a current that you must go with.” 

After which philosophical declaration he began to pack, 
working well on into what he called the morning watch, 
and long after Sir Gordon had been comfortably asleep. 

The next day Tom Porter had orders to go with his 
master to the Admiralty, where he waited for about a 
couple of hours; and two days later he was on his way to 
Plymouth with the sea-chests, as he termed them, perfectly 
happy, and with his shore- togs, as he termed his livery, 
locked up in one of the presses in the chambers in St. 
James’. 

His sailing orders were brief, and he put into port at the 
chief hotel to wait for his master, and he waited. Mean- 
time there had been the painful partings between those 
who loved, and who, in spite of hopeful words, felt that in 
all human probability the parting was final. 

Through the interest of Sir Gordon, a passage had been 
obtained for Mrs. Hallam and her daughter on board the 
Sea King, a fine ship, chartered by the government to take 
out a large detacliment of troops, as well as several impor- 
tant officials, bound to the antipodes on the mission of 
trying to foster what promised to be one of our most im- 
portant colonies. 

“You will be more comfortable,” Sir Gordon said. 
“There will be ladies on board, and I will get you some 


THlSi MAiTS WIFE. 237 

introductions to them, as well as to the governor of Port 
Jackson.” 

Mrs. Hallam gave Bayle a piteous look, as if asking him 
to intercede for her. 

Bayle, however, seemed not to comprehend her look, and 
remained silent. 

It was a painful task, but Millicent Hallam was accus- 
tomed to painful tasks, and, turning to Sir Gordon, she 
said in a quiet, resigned way : 

“You forget my position. I know how kindly all this is 
meant; but I must not be going out on false pretenses. 
My fellow -passengers should not be deceived as to who and 
what I am. I may seem ungrateful to you. Sir Gordon, 
but it would have been far better for me to have gone out 
in some common ship.” 

“ My dear child,” cried Sir Gordon, wringing his hands, 
“ don’t be unreasonable! Do you suppose the womenkind 
on board the Sea King are going to be so contemptible as 
to visit the sins of My dear Bayle, you have more in- 

fluence than I!” he cried, hastily; “tell Mrs. Hallam 
everything is settled, and she must go, and — there, there, 
we’ve had knots and tangles enough; don’t, pray, let us 
have any more!” 

The oid gentleman, who seemed terribly perplexed, 
turned away, but paused as he felt a little hand upon his 
arm, 

“Don’t speak angrily to mamma,” whispered Julia; 
and the old man’s countenance became wholly sunny 
again. 

“ No, no,” he said ; “ but you two must leave matters to 
Mr. Bayle and me. We are acting for the best, my child. 
You cannot conceive what it would have been to let you 
go out as mamma proposed. It was madness!” 

“It is for Julia’s sake,” Mrs. Hallam said to herself, 
when she consented to various little arrangements, though 
she shivered at the thought of being brought face to face 
with her fellow-passengers. 

“Indeed, we are acting with all the foresight we can 
bring to bear,” Bayle said in answer to another remon- 
strance made in the hurry and bustle of preparation. 

“ Yes, ’ ’ she replied ; ‘ ‘ but you are doing too much. You 
make me tremble for the consequence.” 

Bayle smiled, and bade her take comfort. He was 
present with her almost daily, to report little matters that 
he had arranged for her as to money and baggage. Since 
he had accompanied her and Julia back to town he had 
been indefatigable, working with the most cheery good- 
humor, and smiling as he reported the success of the furni- 
ture sale; how capitally he had managed about the little 


23S 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


investments of the wreck of Mrs. Hallam’s money ; and 
how he had obtained letters of credit for her at the 
Sydney Bank. 

Julia watched him day by day as he came with a curious, 
wistful look, that would at times be pitiful, at other times 
full of resentment; and one day she turned to the doctor — 
the old gentleman and Mrs. Luttrell having insisted upon 
coming to town, and following their child to Portsmouth, 
where they were to embark. 

“I believe, grandpa,” she said, half angrily, “that Mr. 
Bayle is tired of us, and that he is glad to get us off his 
hands.” 

“Nothing would ever tire Mr. Bayle, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Luttrell re])rovingly. 

Julia turned to her quickly, and put her arms round the 
old lady’s neck, the tears in her eyes brimming over. 

“No; it was very unkind and ungenerous of me,” she 
said; “ he has always been so good.” 

In the midst of what Avas almost a wild excitement of 
preparation, mingled with bits of despondency, Millicent 
Hallam noticed this too, and found time to feel hurt. 

“ He is such an old friend,” she said to herself. “He 
has been like a brother; and it seems hard that he should 
appear to be less moved at our approaching farewell than 
Mr. Thickens and his wife.” 

For, instigated by the latter. Thickens had come up and 
followed them to Portsmouth. 

“ It would have about killed her, Mrs. Hallam,” he said 
in confidence, as he sat chatting with her aside in the hotel- 
room on the eve of their sailing. “ But now a bit of busi- 
ness. I’ve been trying ever since I came to get a few 
words with you alone, only Sir Gordon and Mr. Bayle 
were always in the way.” 

“Business, Mr. Thickens?” 

“Yes, look here! I’m an actuary, you see, and money- 
adviser, and that sort of thing. Now, you are going out 
there on a long voyage, and you ought to be prepared for 
any little emergencies that may occur in a land that I find 
is not so barbarous as I thought, for I see they have a reg- 
ular banking establishment there, and business regularly 
carried on in paper and bullion.” 

Mrs. Hallam looked at him wonderingly. 

“Ah, I see you don’t understand me, so to be short,” he 
continued, “fact is I talked it over with madam, and we 
settled it between us.” 

“Settled what?” said Mrs. Hallam, wobderingly. 

“Well, the fact is, we’ve two hundred pounds fallen in. 
Been out on a good mortgage at five per cent., and just 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. m 

now I can’t place it anywhere at more than four, and that 
won’t do, you know — will it?” 

“Of course it wmuld not be so advantageous.” 

“ No, to be sure not, so we thought we’d ask you to take 
it at five. Money’s valuable out there. You could easily 
send us the dividend twice a year — ten pounds, you know, 
by credit note, and it would be useful to you, and doing 
your old friends a good turn. I hate to see money lying 
idle.” 

Mrs. Hallam glanced across the room to see that little 
Mrs. Thickens was watching them anxiously, and she felt 
the tears rise in her eyes as she darted a grateful look back, 
before turning to dry, drab-looking Thickens, who now and 
then put his hand up to his ear, as if expecting to find a 
pen there.” 

“It is very good and very generous of you,” she said, 
huskily, “and I can never be grateful enough for all this 
kindness. Believe me, I shall never forget it. ” 

“That’s right. I shall have it all arranged, so that you 
can draw at the Sydney bank.” 

“ No, no!” cried Mrs. Hallam, with energy; “ it is impos- 
sible. Besides, I have a sufiiciency for our wants ; ample 
for the present— the remains of my little property. Mr. 
Bayle has managed it so well for me, my furniture brought 
in a nice little sum, and ’ ’ 

“ Your what?” said Thickens, in a puzzled tone. 

“ My property. You remember what I had when ” 

“ When you were married? Why, my dear madam, you 
don’t think any of that was left?” 

“Mr. Thickens!” 

“Ah, I see!” he cried, with a good-humored smile, for 
delicacy was not the forte of the bank clerk of the little 
country town; “ Mr. Bayle patched up that story. Why, 
my dear madam, when the crash came you hadn’t a half- 
penny. Here ! quick, my dear ! Mrs. Hallam has turned 
faint.” 

“No, it is nothing!” she cried, hastily. “I am better 
now, Mr. Thickens. Go back to our friends, Julia — to 
grandma. It is past.” 

“I— I’m afraid I’ve spoken too plainly,” said Thickens, 
apologetically, as soon as they were alone once more. “ 1 
wish I’d held my tongue.” 

“I am very glad that you spoke, Mr. Thickens,” said 
Mrs. Hallam, in a low voice. ‘ ‘ It was better that I should 
know.” 

“Then you will let fne lend you that money?” — eagerly. 

“ No. It is impossible. I am deeper in obligations than 
I thought. Pray, spare me by not saying more.” 


240 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ I want to do everything you wish,” said Thickens, un- 
easily. 

“Then say no word about what you have told me to 
any one.” 

“Pooh! Mrs. Hallam; as if I should. Money-matters 
are always sacred with me. That comes of Mr. Bayle 
banking in town. If he had trusted me with his money- 
matters I should never have spoken like this.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

MILLICENT HALLAM LEARNS A LITTLE MORE OF THE TRUTH. 

It was a painful evening, that last. Every one was 
assuming to be light- hearted, and talking of the voyage as 
being pleasant, and hinting delicately at the possibility of 
seeing mother and daughter soon again, but all the while 
feeling that the farewells must in all probability be final. 

Mr. and Mrs. Thickens retired early, for the latter whis- 
pered to her husband that she could bear it no longer. 

“ I feel, dear, as if it were a funeral, and we were being 
kept all this while standing by the open grave!” 

“Hush!” whispered back Thickens; “it’s like prophesy- 
ing evil.” And they hurriedly took leave. 

Then Sir Gordon rose, saying that it was very late, and 
he, too, went, leaving mother and daughter exchanging 
glances, for the old man seemed cool and unruffled in an 
extraordinary degree. 

Bayle remained a little longer, talking to Dr. and Mrs. 
Luttrell, whose favorite attitudes all the evening had been, 
seated on either side of Julia, each holding a hand. 

“ Good- night,” said Bayle, at last, rising and shaking 
hands with Julia in a cheery, pleasant manner. “No sit- 
ting up. Take my advice and have a good rest, so as to be 
prepared for the sea-demon. Eleven punctually, you know, 
to-morrow. Everything ready?” 

“ Yes, everything is ready, ’’ replied Julia, looking at him 
with her eyes flashing and a feeling of anger at his cavalier 
manner forcing its way to the surface. It seemed so cruel. 
Just at a time like that, when a few tender words of sym- 
pathy would have been like balm to the wounded spirit, he 
was as cool and indifferent as could be. She was right, she 
told herself. He really was tired of them. 

Bayle evidently read her ingenuous young countenance 
and smiled, with the result that she darted an indignant 
glance at him, and then could not keep back her tears. 

“ Oh, no, no, no!” he said, taking her hand and holding 
it, speaking the while as if she were a child. “Tears? 
tears? Oh, nonsense! Why, these are not the days of 
Christopher Columbus. You are not going to sail away 


THIS 3IAN'S WIFE, 


241 


upon an unknown £;ea. It is a mere yachting trip, and 
every step of the way is known. Come, come, cheer up. 
That’s nautical, you know, Julie. Good-night, my dear! 
good-night.” 

He shook hands far more warmly and affectionately with 
the doctor and Mrs. Luttrell, hesitating for a moment or 
two, and even taking poor weeping Mrs. Luttrell in his 
arms, and kissing her tenderly again and again. 

“Good-night, good-night, my dear old friend,” he said. 
“ You have been almost more than a mother to me. Good- 
night, good-night.” 

The old lady sobbed upon his shoulder for some time, the 
doctor holding Bayle’s other hand, while Julia crossed to 
her mother, who was standing cold and statuesque near 
the door, and hid her face. 

“Good-night and good-bye, my dear boy,” said Mrs. 
Luttrell, as she raised her head, and looked up in his face. 
“ And you always have seemed as if you were our son.” 

Bayle’s lip quivered, and his face was for a moment con- 
vulsed, but he was calm again in a moment. 

“ To be sure, doctor,” he said. “ I shall come down and 
see you again some day. I want some gardening for a 
change. Good-night, good ” 

His last word was inaudible, as he hurried toward the 
door, where Mrs. Hallam was awaiting him. 

“Go back to your grandmother, Julie,” she said, in a 
low, stern voice. ‘ ‘ Christie Bayle, I wish to speak to 
you.” 

“Tome? To-night?” he said, hastily. “ No, to-morrow. 
I am not myself now, and you need rest.” 

“No,” she said, in the same deep voice, “to-night,” and 
she led the way into an inner room. 

Julia made as if to follow, but stopped short, and stood 
watching till her mother and their old friend disappeared . 

The room was lit only by the light that streamed in from 
the street-lamp and a shop near the hotel, so that the faces 
of Millicent Hallam and Bayle were half in shadow as they 
stood opposite to each other. 

Bayle was silent, for he had seen that Mrs. Hallam Avas 
deeply moved. He had studied her face too many years 
not to be able to read its various changes ; and now, on the 
eve of her departure, he knew that in spite of the apparent 
calmness of the surface a terrible storm of grief must be 
raging beneath, and feeling that perhaps she wished to say 
a few words of thanks to him, and, while asking some at- 
tention toward the old people, she was about to take this 
opportunity to bid him farewell, he stood there in silence 
waiting for her to speak. 

Twice over she essayed, but the words would not come. 


242 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


It was as if misery, indignation, and humiliation were con- 
tending in her breast, and each mood was uppermost when 
she opened her lips. How could she have been so un- 
worldly — so blind all these years, as not to have seen that 
Christie Bayle had been impoverishing himself that she 
and her child might live in comfort? 

As she thought this she was moved to hum.ility, and ad- 
miration of the gentleman who had hidden all this from 
them, always behaving with the greatest delicacy, and 
carefully hiding the part he had taken in her life. 

‘ ‘ And I thought myself so experienced — so well taught 
by adversity,” she said to herself. 

” Did you wish to ask me something, Mrs. Hallam?” said 
Bayle, at last. ” Is it some commission you wish me to 
undertake?” 

” Stop a moment,” she said, hoarsely. Then, as if by a 
tremendous effort over herself, she tried to steady her 
voice, and to speak indignantly, as she exclaimed: 

“Christie Bayle, why have you humiliated me like this?” 

He started, for he had not the remotest idea that she had 
learned his secret. 

‘‘Humiliated you?” he said. “Oh no, I could not have 
done that. ’ ’ 

“ I have trusted you so well — looked upon you as a 
brother, and now, at the eleventh hour of my home-life, I 
find that even you have not deserved my trust.” 

‘* Indeed!” he said, smiling. “ What have I done?” 

“ What have you done?” she cried, indignantly, her 
emotion begetting a kind of unreason and making her bit- 
ter in her words. “ What have I done in my misery and 
misfortune that you should take advantage of my posi- 
tion? That man to-night has told me all.” 

‘ ‘ I hardly understand you, ’ ’ he said, gravely. 

“ Not understand? He has told me that when that ter- 
rible trouble came upon me it did not come singly, and 
that I was left penniless to battle with the world. Is this 
true?” 

Bayle refrained for a few moments before answering. 

“ Is this wise?” he said at last. “ For your own sake — 
for the sake of Julie — you have need of all your fortitude 
to bear up against a painful series of farewells. Why 
trouble about this trifle now?” 

“ Trifle !” she cried, angrily. “Stop! Let me think.” 

She stood with her hands pressed to her forehead, as if 
struggling to drag something from the past— from out of 
the mist and turmoil of those terrible days and nights, 
when her brain seemed to have been on fire, and she lay 
almost at the point of death. 

“ Yes,” she cried, as if a flame had suddenly illumined 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 243 

her brain, “I see now; I know. Tell me, is what that 
man said true?” 

He was slow to answer, but at last the words came, ut- 
tered sadly, and in a low voice : 

“ If he told you that at that terrible time you were left 
in distress, it is true.” 

“ I knew it,” she said, passionately. “Now tell me this 
—I will know. When my poor husband lay there helpless, 
in prison — yes, it all comes back clearly now — my illness 
seems to have covered it all as with a mist, but I remember 
that there was powerful counsel engaged for his defense, 
and great efforts were made to save him. Who did this? 
I have kept it all hidden away, not daring to drag these 
matters out into the light of the present, but I must know 
now. Who did this?” 

He did not answer. 

“Your silence convicts you,” she said, angrily. “It 
was you.” 

“ Yes,” he said, quietly, “ it was I.” 

‘ ‘ Then we were left penniless, and it is to you we owe 
everything— for all these years?” 

Again he was silent. 

“ Answer me,” she cried, imperiously. 

“Did I not acknowledge it before,” he said, calmly. 
“ Mrs. Hallam, have I committed so grave a social crime, 
that you speak to me like this?” 

“It was cruel — to me — to my child,” she cried, indig- 
nantly. “You have kept us in a false position all these 
years. Man, can you not understand the degradation and 
shame I felt when I was enlightened here only an hour 
ago?” 

He stood there silent again, for a few moments, before 
speaking, and then took her hand. 

“ If I have done wrong,” he said, “forgive me. When 
that blow fell, and your position, all the past seemed to 
come back— that day, when, in my boyish vanity, I ” 

“ Ah ! hush !’ ’ she cried. 

“ Nay, let me speak,” he said, calmly. “ I recalled that 
day when you bade me be friend and brother to you, and 
life seemed to be one blank despair. I remembered how I 
prayed for strength, and how that strength came, how I 
vowed that I would be friend and brother to you and 
yours; and when the time of tribulation came was my act 
so unbrotherly in your distress?” 

She was silent. 

“Millicent Hallam, do you think that I have not loved 
your child as tenderly as if she had been my own? Fate 
gave me money. Well, men as a rule spend their money 


244 : 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


ill the way that affords them the most pleasure. I am only 
a weak man, and I have done the same. ” 

“You have kept yourself poor that we might live in idle- 
ness. ’ ’ 

“You are wrong,” he said, with a quiet laugh. “ I was 
never richer than during these peaceful years — that have 
now come to an end,” he added, sorrowfully; “and you 
would make me poor once more. There,” he continued, 
speaking quickly, “I confess all. Forgive me. I could 
not see you in want.” 

“I should not have been in want,” she said, proudly. 
“If I had known that it was necessary I should work, the 
toil would have come easily to my hands. I should have 
toiled on for my child’s sake, and waited patiently until 
my husband bade me come.” 

“ But you forgive me?” he said, in his old tone. 

For answer, she sunk upon the floor at his feet, covering 
her face with her hands, and he heard her sobbitig. 

“Good-night,” he said at last, “I will send Julie.” 

He bent down and laid his fingers softly upon her head 
for a moment, and was turning to go, but she caught at his 
hand and held it. 

“A moment,” she cried, “best and truest friend. For- 
give me, and mine — when we are divided, as we shall be — 
for life, try— pray for me — pray for him — and believe in 
him— as you do in me — my husband, Christie Bayle— my 
poor, martyred husband.” 

“ And I am forgiven?” he said. 

“ Forgiven?” 

She said no more, and he passed quietly into the room 
where Julie was anxiously waiting his return. 

“Dr.— Mrs. Luttrell,” he said, “you must try and calm 
her, or she will not be able to undertake this journey. 
Julia, my child, try what you can do. Good-night. Good- 
night.” 

As the door closed after him, Mrs. Hallam walked back 
into the room looking calm and stern; but her face soft- 
ened as Julia clung to her, and then seated herself at her 
mother’s feet, the next hours passing so peacefully that it 
was impossible to believe that the time for parting was so 
near. 


CHAPTER XII. 

OVER THE SEA. 

“ Is— is it true, mother?” said Julia, as the town, with 
its docks and shipping, seemed to be growing less and less, 
while the Isle of Wight and the land on their right looked 
dim and clouded over. The sun still shone, but it seemed 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


J>45 

to be watery and cold; there was a chill upon the sea; a^ld 
though there was a great deal of hurrying to and fro 
among the sailors and soldiers as the cumbered decks were 
being cleared, it was to Mrs. Hallam and her child as if a 
dead silence had fallen, and the noises of the ship and 
creaking of block and spar were heard from a distance olT. 

Thisbe was seated near where the two stood by the bul- 
wark gazing toward the shore. Thisbe felt no desire to 
watch the retiring land, for her heart was very low, and 
she found rest and solace in shedding one salt tear now and 
then, and wiping it away with her glove. 

Unfortunately, Thisbe’s glove was black; and the dye in 
her glove not being fast, the effect was strange.^ 

“ I’m afraid to cry,” she said to herself; “ but he might 
have had as good manners as his master, and said ‘good- 
bye.’” 

Thisbe must have been deeply moved, or she would not 
have sat there upon a little box that she would not let out 
of her hands, probably on account of its insecurity, for it 
was tied up with two different kinds of string. 

“It seems to me,” continued Julia, “as if it were all 
some terrible dream,” 

“ But one that is to have a happy waking, Julie. ” 

“ Poor grandma! it seemed as if it would kill her,” said 
Julia, sobbing gently. 

“ Hush !” cried Mrs. Hallam, grasping her child’s arm, 
as a spasm of pain ran through her, and her face grew 
deadly pale. “ We must think of one who, in pain and 
suffering, was dragged from his wife and child ; forced to 
suffer the most terrible degradations. He is waiting for 
us, Julie, waiting as he has waited all these years. We 
must turn our backs upon these troubles, and think only 
of him. Be firm, my child, be firm.” 

There was almost a savage emphasis in Mrs. Hallam’s 
words as she spoke. 

“ I’ll try, dear, but grandpa!” sobbed Julie, as she laid 
her arm upon the bulwark, and her face upon it that she 
might weep unseen. “Will we never see him and the 
pleasant old garden again?” 

“ Julie, this is childish,” whispered Mrs. Hallam. “Ee- 
member you are a woman now.” 

“I do,” cried the girl, quickly; “but a woman must 
feel grief at parting from those she loves.” 

“Yes, but it must not overbear all, my child. Come, 
w'e must not give way, now. Let us go below to our 
cabin.” 

“No,” said Julie, “I must watch the shore till it is 
dark. Not yet, not yet. Mother, I thought Sir Gordon 
liked us— was a very, very great friend.” 


246 


Tim MAN^S WIFE. 


“ He is. He always has been.” 

“ But he parted from us as if it were only for a day or 
two. He did not seem troubled in the least.” 

Mrs Hallam was silent. 

“And Mr. Bayle, mother, he quite checked me. I was 
so grieved, and "felt in such despair at parting from him, 
till he stood holding my hands. I wanted to throw my 
arms round his neck and let him hold me to his breast as 
he used years ago; but when I looked up in his face, he 
seemed so calm and cheerful, and he just smiled down at 
me, and it quite made me angry. Mamma dear, men have 
no feeling at all.” 

“ I think Mr. Bayle feels our going deeply,” replied Mrs. 
Hallam, quietly. 

“He did not seem to,” said Julia, pettishly. 

“ A man cannot show his sorrow as a woman may, my 
child, ’ ’ said Mrs. Hallam. with a sigh. 

She gazed back at the land that seemed to be growing 
more dim, minute by minute, as the great ship careened 
over to the press of sail and sped on down Channel. 

A wistful look (;ame into Mrs. Hallam’s eyes as she 
thought of her child’s words. In spite of resolutions and 
promises, the parting from the old people had been most 
painful ; but throughout all, there had seemed to her to be 
a curious indifference to her going on the part of Bayle. 
He had been incessant in his attentions; a hundred little 
acts had been performed that were likely to make their 
stay on shipboard more pleasant; but there was a some- 
thing wanting— a something she had felt deeply, and the 
pain became the more acute, since she found that her feel- 
ings were shared by Julia. 

They stood gazing at the gray and distant land when the 
evening was falling. They were faint for want of food ; 
but they knew it not, for the faintness was mingled with 
the sickness of the heart, and, in spite of the glowing, 
happy future Mrs. Hallam tried to paint, a strange sense 
of desolation and despair seemed to overmaster her, and 
all her fortitude was needed to save her from bursting into 
a violent fit of sobbing. 

On and on, with the water rushing beneath them, as 
they leaned upon the bulwarks, gazing still at the fast re- 
ceding shore. There had been a great deal of bustle going 
on around them; but so wrapped were they in their own, 
feelings that sailors and passengers, officers and men 
passed and repassed unheeded. They were in a little world 
of their own, blind to all beside, so that it was with quite 
a start that Mrs. Hallam heard, for the second time, a voice 
say: 


Tim MAN'S WIFE. 


247 


“Surely, ladies, you must be cold. Will you allow me 
to fetch shawls from the cabin?” 

The first time these words were spoken neither Mrs. 
Hallam nor Julia moved; but on their being repeated, they 
turned quickly round, to find that Thisbe had gone below, 
and that where she had been seated upon her box an officer 
in undress uniform was standing, cap in hand. 

“I thank you, no,” said Mrs. Hallam, coldly, as she re- 
turned the bow. “Julie, it is time we went below.” 

The officer drew back as mother and daughter swept 
slowly b}^, toward the cabin stairs, and remained motion- 
less even after they had disappeared. 

He was roused from his waking dream by a hearty clap 
on the shoulders. 

“What’s the matter, Phil?” said a bluff voice, and a 
heavy-featured officer of about forty looked at him in a 
half-amused manner. 

“Matter? Matter? Nothing; nothing at all.” 

“Bah! don’t tell me. The old game, Phil. Is she nice- 
looking?” 

“ Beautiful,” cried the young officer, excitedly. 

“Ah! that’s how I used to speak of Mrs. Captain 
Otway,” said the heavy-looking officer, cynically; “but, 
my dear Phil, with all due respect to the sharer of my joys 
and the sorrows of going out to this horrible hole, Mrs. 
Captain Otway does not look beautiful now.” 

“Otway, you are a brute to that woman. She is a 
thoroughly true-hearted lady, and too good for you.” 

‘ ‘ Much, Phil, much too good. Poor woman, it was hard 
upon her, with all her love of luxury and refinement, that 
she should be forced by fate to marry the poor captain of 
a marching regiment.” 

“ Sent out to guard convicts in a penal settlement, eh?” 

“ Yes, to be sure. Oh, dear me, I shall be heartily glad 
when we are settled down and have had a week at sea.” 

” Oh, I don’t know. I think time passes quite quickly 
enough. I say, Otway, do you think if you asked her, 
Mrs. Otway would lend a helping hand to those two ladies? 
They seem very strange and desolate on board here.” 

“My wife? Impossible, Phil; she is in her berth al- 
ready, declaring that she is sea-sick, when all the time it 
is fancy.” 

“ How do you know?” 

“ How do I know? Because she never is; it is so as to 
get out of the misery and confusion of the first day. Look 
here, Phil, I’m always glad to help you, though. Shall I 
do?” 

“ You do? What for?’ ’ 


248 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ To go down and try and set your last enslavers at their 
ease.” 

” Don’t be idiotic.” 

“ Nice way for a subaltern to speak to his commanding 
officer, sir.” 

“ I was not speaking to my commanding officer, but to 
my old companion. Jack Otway.” 

“Oh, I see. I say, Phil, which of the fair ones is it — 
Juno or Hebe?” 

“ Don’t talk nonsense.” 

“All right. Who are they?” 

“ I can’t find out yet. The captain gave me their names^ 
that’s all. Hist! here is their maid.” 

Just then Thisbe, who had been below, creeping off 
quietly to make things a bit comfortable, as she called it, 
came on deck, having missed Mrs. Hallam and Julia, ex- 
pecting to find them where she had left them, leaning over 
the bulwarks; and full of haste, as she had found that 
there was at last something like a comfortable meal spread 
in the principal cabin. 

“ It’s very muddly,” she muttered to herself, “ and I’d 
give something for a snug little room where I could make 
them a comfortable cup of tea. And this is being at sea, 
is it?— sea that Tom Porter says is so lovely. Poor 
wretch!” 

Thisbe impatiently dashed a tear from her eyes, the 
reason for whose coming she would not own; and then she 
stopped short, wondering at the presence of a couple of 
officers where she had left Mrs. Hallam and Julia, for, 
from some reason best known to himself, Philip Eaton, of 
his Majesty’s — th Foot, was resting his arms where Julia 
had rested hers, and Captain Otway, in command of the 
draft on its way out to Port Jackson, had involuntarily 
taken Mrs. Hallam’s place. 

“ Looking for your ladies?” said Eaton. 

“Yes. What have you done with — I mean where are 
they?” 

“One moment,” said the lieutenant, in a confidential 
manner, as he slipped his hand into his pocket, “just tell 
me ” 

He stopped astonished, for as she saw the motion of the 
young man’s hand, and heard his insinuating words, 
Thisbe gave vent to a sound best expressed by the word 
“ Wuff !” but which sounded exceedingly like the bark of 
some pet dog, as she whisked hei’self round and searched 
the deck before once more going below. 

“Another of them,” she muttered between her teeth. 
“Handsome as handsome, and ready to lay traps for my 
darling. But I’m not going to have her made miserable. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


249 


I’m a woman now; I was a weak, watery, girlish thing 
then. I’m not going to have her life made a wreck.” 

Thisbe went below, little thinking that it would be a 
week before she again came on deck. 

The weather turned bad that night, and the customary 
miseries ensued. It was so bad that the captain was glad 
that he had to run into Plj^mouth; but no sooner was he 
there than the weather abated, tempting him forth again 
to encounter a terrible gale off the Lizard, and more or less 
bad weather till they were well across the Bay of Biscay, 
and running down the west coast of Spain, when the 
weather changed all at once. The sky cleared, the sun 
came out warm and bright, the sea went down, and one 
by one the wretched passengers stole on deck. 

Among them, pale and depressed by the long confine- 
ment in the cabins, Mrs. Hallam and Julia were ready 
to hurry on deck to breathe the sweet, pure air. 

‘‘And is that distant shore Spain?” said Julia, wonder- 
ingly, as she gazed at the faint gray line at which every 
eye and glass was being directed. 

“Yes, Julie,” said Mrs. Hallam, more cheerfully, 
“sunny Spain.” 

“And it seemed just now that we were gazing at dear 
old England,” said Julia, with a sigh. 

“ Yes,’’ said Mrs. Hallam, grasping her band with fever- 
ish energy, “but now we are so many hundred miles 
nearer to him who is waiting our coming, Julie. Let us 
count the miles as he is counting the minutes before he can 
take his darling to his heart. Julie, my child, we must 
put the past behind us; it is the future for which w^e must 
live.” 

“Forget the past?” said Julia, mournfully. “It was 
such a happy time.” 

“For you, Julie, but for me one long agonizing time of 
waiting.” 

“Dearest mother,” whispered Julia, pressing her hand 
and speaking quickly, “ I know— I know, and I will try so 
hard not to be selfish.” 

They had turned to the bulwarks the moment they came 
on deck, and, without casting a look round, had glanced at 
the distant coast and then mentally plunged their eyes 
into the cloud ahead, beyond which stood Robert Hallam 
awaiting their coming. 

“I had the pleasure of speaking to you before the storm, 
ladies,” said a voice; and as they turned quickly, it was to 
find Lieutenant Eaton, cap in hand, snnling and slightly 
flushed. 

Mrs. Hallam bowed. 

“ I sincerely trust that you have quite recovered,” con- 


250 THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

tiiiued the young officer, directing an admiring gaze at 
Julia. 

‘ ‘ Quite, I thank you, ’ ’ said Mrs. Hallam, coldly. 

“ Then we shall see you at the table, Mrs. Hallam— and 
Miss Hallam?” he continued, with another bow. 

Julia returned the bow, looking flushed and rather indig- 
nant. 

■ “I hope you will excuse me,” continued Eaton; ‘‘on 
shipboard, you see, we are like one family — all, as it were, 
in the same house.” 

Mrs. Hallam bowed again, flushed as ingenuously as her 
daughter, for these advances troubled her greatly. She 
would have preferred being alone, and in a more humble 
portion of the vessel, but Sir Gordon and Bayle had in- 
sisted upon her occupying one of the best cabins, and it 
seemed to her that she was there under false pretenses, 
and that it was only a question of days before there must 
come discovery, which would put them to open shame. 

Driven as it were to bay by the young officer’s words, 
she replied, hastily, “You must excuse me now; I have 
scarcely recovered.” 

“ Pray forgive me,” cried Eaton, giving Julia a look full 
of intelligence, which made her shrink. “ I ought to have 
known better. In a short time, I hope, Mrs. Hallam, that 
we shall be better acquainted. ’ ’ 

He raised his cap again and drew back, while, excited 
and agitated beyond her wont, Mrs. Hallam exclaimed : 

“ It cannot be, Julie. We must keep ourselves aloof 
from these people— from all the passengers ; our course is 
alone— till we join him.” 

“Yes,” said Julia, in a troubled way, “we must be 
alone.” 

“ These people who make advances to us now,” contin- 
ued Mrs. Hallam, “ would master the object of our jour- 
ney before we had gone far, and then we should be the 
pariahs of the ship.” 

“ Would they be so unjust, mother?” sighed Julia. 

“Yes, for they do not know the truth. If they were 
told all, they would not believe it. My child, it was so 
that the world should never turn upon us and revile us for 
our misfortune that I have insisted all these years on 
living so reserved a life. And now we must go on in the 
same manner. If we allow ourselves to be drawn into 
friendly relations with these people our story will ooze out, 
and we shall have to endure the insult and misery of seeing 
them turn their backs upon us. Better that we should os- 
tracize ourselves than suffer it at other hands ; the blow 
will be less keen,” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. • 25 1 

“ I am ready to do all you wish, dear,” said Julia, steal- 
ing her hand to her mother’s. 

‘ ‘ My beloved, ’ ’ whispered back Mrs. Hallam, “it is our 
fate. We must bear all this, but our reward will be the 
more joyful, Julie; it is for your father’s sake. Think of 
it, my child ; there is no holier name under heaven to a 
child than that of father.” 

There Avas a pause, and then Julia, in a low, sweet voice, 
Avhispered, “ And that of mother.” 

The two women stood there alone, seeming to gaze across 
the bright sea at the distant land. Passengers and sailors 
passed them, and the officers of the ship hesitated, as they 
di*ew near, about speaking, ending by respecting the rev- 
erie in which they seemed to be Avrapped, and passing on. 
But Millicent and Julia Hallam saAv neither sea, shore, nor 
the distant land ; before each the face of Eobert Hallam, as 
they had known it last, rose out of, as it Avere, a mist. 
And as they gazed into the future, the countenance of 
Julia seemed full of timid Avonder, half shrinking, while 
that of Millicent grew more and more calm, as her eyes 
filled with a sweet, subdued light, full of yearning to meet 
once more him Avho Avas waiting all those thousand miles 
away. 

So intent were they upon their thoughts of the coming 
encounter, that neither of them noticed the quiet step that 
approached and then stopped close at hand. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Hallam, aloud, “ Ave must accept our 
position, my child; better that Ave should be alone.” 

“ Not quite.” 

Julia started round with a cry of joy, and placed her 
hands in those of the speaker. 

“ Mr. Bayle!” she cried, excitedly ; “ Avhat a surprise!” 

“You here?” said Mrs. Hallam, hoarsely. 

“Yes,” was the reply, given in the calmest, most mat- 
ter-of-fact, half-laughing way, and as if it Avere merely a 
question of crossing a county at home. “ Why, you two 
poor unprotected Avomen, you did not think I meant to let 
you take this long voyage alone?” 

Mrs. Hallam drew a long breath and turned pale. She 
essayed to speak, but no words would come ; and at last, 
Avith a spasm seeming to contract her brow, she turned to 
gaze appealingly at her child. 

“But you are going back?” said Julia, and she, too, 
seemed deeply moved. 

He shook his head, and smiled. 

“ How good— how noble!” she began. 

“ Ah, tut, tut, little pupil! what nonsense!” cried Bayle, 
merrily. “ Why, here is Sir Gordon, Avho has done pre- 
cisely the same thing.” And the old baronet came slowly 


252 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


up, raising his straw hat just as Thisbe came hurriedly on 
deck to announce the discovery she had made, and found 
that she was too late. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

NEW FACES— NEW FRIENDS. 

“You may call it what you like, Mr. Tom Porter, but I 
call it deceit.” 

“No,” said Tom, giving his rough head a roll, as he 
stood with his legs very far apart, looking quite the sailor 
now, in place of the quiet body-servant of the St. James’ 
pantry — “no, my lass, not deceit, reg’lar sea arrangement; 
sailing under sealed orders. Quite a reg’lar thing.” 

“ It’s the last thing I should have expected of Sir Gor- 
don ; and as to Mr. Bayle, how he could keep it quiet as he 
did, and then all at once make his appearance off the coast 
of Spain ” 

“ After coming quietly on board at Plymouth, while 
you people were all shut up below out of the rough weather. 
Pooh! my lass, it was all meant well, so don’t show so 
much surf.” 

“Reason?” said Bayle, smiling, as he sat aft with Mrs. 
Hallam and Julia, Sir Gordon having gone to his cabin. 
“I thought if I proposed coming it would agitate and 
trouble you both ; and as to what you have said, surely I 
am a free agent, and if it gives me pleasure to watch over 
you both, and to render you up safely at our journey’s 
end, you cannot wish to deny me that.” 

The subject dropped ; and as the days glided on in the 
pleasant monotony of a life at sea, when the sky smiles and 
the wind is fair, the position seemed to be accepted by Mrs. 
Hallam as inevitable. She tried hard to shut herself away 
with Julia, but soon found that she must yield to circum- 
stances. She appealed to Sir Gordon and to Christie Bayle, 
but each smiled as he gave her a few encouraging words. 

“You trouble yourself about an imaginary care,” the 
latter said. “ Bear in mind that you are on your way to 
a settlement where sins against the government are often 
condoned, and you may rest assured that no one on board 
this vessel would be so cruel as to visit your unhappy con- 
dition upon your innocent heads.” 

“But I would far rather be content with Julie’s com- 
pany, and keep to our cabin. ’ ’ 

“ It is impossible,” said Bayle. “It is like drawing at- 
tention to you. Be advised by me: lead the quiet, regular 
cabin life, and all will be well.” 

Mrs. Hallam shook her head. 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


253 


“No,” she said. “I am afraid. I am more troubled 
than I can say.” 

“ She gazed up in Bayle’s eyes, and a questioning look 
passed between them. Each silently asked the other the 
same question: “Have you noticed that?” 

But the time was not ripe for the question to be put in its 
entirety, and neither spoke. 

The weather continued glorious from the time of the 
fresh gray dawn, when the tip of the sun gradually rose 
above the sea, on through the glowing heat of noon, when 
the pitch oozed from the seams, and outside the awnings 
the hand-rails could not be touched by the bare hand ; then 
on and on till the passengers assembled in groups to see sky 
and water dyed with the refulgent hues that dazzled while 
they filled with awe. 

It was at these times that Mrs. Hallam and Julia stole 
away from the other groups, to be followed at a distance 
by Bayle, who stood and watched them as they gazed at 
the setting sun. For it seemed to mother and daughter 
like a sign, a foretaste of the glory of the land to which 
they were going, and in the solemnity and silence of the 
mighty deep, evening by evening they stood and watched, 
their privacy respected by all on board, till lamps began to 
swing here and there beneath the awning, and generally 
Lieutenant Eaton came to ask Mrs. Hallam to play or Julia 
to sing. 

“Bayle,” Sir Gordon would say, with the repetition of 
an elderly and querulous man, “you always seem to me 
like a watch-dog on the lookout for intruders. ” 

. “I am,” said Bayle, laconically. 

“Then why, sir, confound you! when the intruders do 
come, don’t you seize ’em, and shake ’em, and throw ’em 
overboard 1” 

“I am afraid I should do something of the kind,” re- 
plied Bayle, “ only I must have cause.” 

“ Cause? Well, haven’t you cause enough, man?” 

“ Surely no. Everybody on board, from the captain to 
the humblest seaman," has a respectful smile for them as he 
raises his cap.” 

“ Of course he has.” cried Sir Gordon, testily. 

“ Then why should the watch-dog interfere?” 

“Why? Isn’t that soldier-fellow always making ad- 
vances, and carrying them off to the piano of an evening?” 

“Yes; and it seems, now the first trouble has worn off, 
to give them both pleasure. Surely they have had their 
share of pain!” 

“Yes, yes,” cried Sir Gordon; “but I don’t like it; I 
don’t like it, Bayle.” 

“ I have felt the same, but we must not be selfish. Be- 


254 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


sides, we agreed that they ought to associate with the pas- 
sengers during the voyage.” 

Sir Gordon’s face grew full of puckers as he drew out 
and lit a cheroot, which he smoked in silence, while Bayle 
went to the side and gazed at the black water, spangled 
with the reflected stars that burned above in the vast be- 
jeweled arch of heaven. 

“I don’t like it,” muttered Sir Gordon to himself, “ and 
I don’t understand Bayle. No,” he continued, after a 
pause, “I cannot ask him that. Time settles all these 
matters, and it will settle this.” 

From where he sat he could, by turning his head, gaze 
beneath the awning looped up like some great marquee. 
Here, by the light of the shaded lamps, the passengers and 
officers gathered night after night as they sailed on through 
the tropics. At times there would be a dance, more often 
the little tables would be occupied by players at some 
game, while first one lady and then another would take 
her place at the piano. 

There were other eyes besides Sir Gordon’s watching be- 
neath the awning, and a signal would be given by a low 
whistle whenever Julia was seen to approach the instru- 
ment. Then a knot of the soldiers and sailors would col- 
lect to listen to her clear, thrilling voice as she sung some 
sweet, old-time ballad. It was always Philip Eaton who 
pressed her to sing, led her to the piano, and stood over 
her, holding a lamp or turning over the leaves. He it was, 
too, who was the first to applaud warmly ; and often and 
often from where he leaned over the bulwarks listening, 
too, Bayle could see the ingenuous, girlish face look up 
with a smile at the handsome young officer, who would 
stay by her side afterward perhaps the greater part of the 
evening, or he would lead her to where Captain Otway was 
lolling back, talking to Mrs. Captain Otway, a handsome, 
fashionable looking woman, who seemed to win her way 
day by day more and more to the friendship of Millicent 
Hallam. 

At such times Sir Gordon would be alone and fume, 
while Bayle watched the black, starlit water, closing his 
eyes when Julia sung or Mrs. Hallam played some old 
piece that recalled the doctor’s cottage at King’s Castor. 
Afterward he would turn his head and look beneath the 
awning sadly— the warm, soft glow of the swinging lamp 
lighting up face after face, which then seemed to fade 
away into the shadow. 

He was strangely affected at such times. Now it was 
the present, and they were at sea; anon it seemed that he 
was leaning over the rustic seat in the doctor’s garden, and 
that was not the awning and thb quarter-deck, but the 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


255 


little drawing-room with the open windows. Time had not 
glided on; and in a curious dreamy fashion that did not 
seem to be Julia, the child he had taught, but Millicent ; 
and that was not Lieutenant Eaton leaning over her, but 
Robert Hallam. 

Then one of the shadows of the awning would take a 
grotesque resemblance to little Miss Heathery, to help out 
the flights of fancy ; and Bayle would listen for the tink 
ling notes of the piano again, and feel surprised not to 
hear a little, bird like voice piping “ Gayly the Trouba- 
dour.” 

Then there would be a burst of merry conversation, and 
perhaps a laugh ; and as Bayle turned his head again to 
gaze half wonderingly, the lamplight would fall, perhaps, 
upon the faces of mother and daughter, the center of the 
group near the piano. 

Christie Bayle would begin to study the stars once more, 
as if seeking to read therein his future ; but in vain, for he 
gazed down where they were broken and confused in the 
dark waters, sparkling and gliding as they were repeated 
again below, deep down in the transparent depths, where 
phosphorescent creatures, bright almost as the reflected 
stars, glowed here and there. 

“I can’t make him out,” Sir Gordon would often say. 

No wonder ! Christie Bayle could not analyze his own 
feelings, only that the old sorrow that was dead and buried 
years upon years ago seemed to be reviving and growing 
till it was becoming an agonizing pang. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

LADY EATON’S SON. 

It was a long voyage, for in those days the idea of 
shortening a trip to the antipodes had not been dreamed 
of, and the man who had suggested that the time would 
come when powerful steamers would run through the 
Mediterranean, down a canal, along the Red Sea, across 
the Indian Ocean, touch at Singapore, and after threading 
their way among the tropic Indian Islands, pass down the 
eastern side of the Australian Continent, within shelter of 
the Great Barrier Reef, would have been called a madman. 

But long and tedious as it was made by calms, in what 
seemed to be a region of eternal summer, Christie Bayle 
prayed that the voyage might be prolonged. 

And then, Julia— wlio had been to him as his own child, 
whose young life he had seen increase and develop till the 
bud was promising to be a lovely flower— seemed so happy. 
Everything was so new to the young girl, fresh from her 
life of retirement, and now thrust into a society where she 


350 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


was at once made queen. There was a smile and a pull at 
the forelock from every sailor, while every soldier of Cap- 
tain Otway’s company was ready to salute as soon as she 
came on deck. 

The bluff old captain of the Sea King took her at once 
under his protection and settled her place at table; while 
his officers vied with one another in their attentions. As 
for Philip Eaton, he was more than satisfied with the be- 
havior of Mrs. Captain Otway, and he did not believe her 
when, in a free-and-easy way, she clapped him on the 
shoulder and said : 

“ It's not on your account, Phil Eaton— handsome youth, 
who falleth in love with every pretty woman he sees— but 
because I like the little lady. However, my boy, your 
flirtation is nearly over. ’ ’ 

“ Nearly over, Mrs. Otway !” he cried, warmly. “ Flirta- 
tion? Don’t call it by that wretched name.” 

“There, I told Jack so, and he laughed at me. It is 
serious then?” 

“ Serious. I mean to be married this time.” 

“Pooh! Nonsense, Phil. Absurd.” 

“Was it absurd for you to make a runaway match with 
John Otway?” 

“No; but then we loved each other passionately.” 

“ Well, and do not we?” 

“Hum! No, my dear boy. There, Phil, you see, I am 
like a mother to you. You think you love the little thing 
desperately. ” 

“And I do so. It is no thinking. I never saw a woman 
Avho moved me as she does with her sweet, innocent 
ways.” 

“ Is it so bad as that?” said Mrs. Otway, smiling. 

“Bad! no, it’s good. I’m glad I’ve met the woman at 
last of whom I can feel proud. She is so different from 
any girl I ever met before.” 

“ Don’t singe your wings, my handsome butterfly,” said 
Mrs. Otway, laughing. “ Why my dear Phil, I don’t 
think the girl cares for you a bit.” 

“ But I am sure she does.” 

“Has she owned to it?” 

“ No,” he said, proudly. “I am in earnest now, and I 
reverence her so that I would not say a word until I have 
spoken to her mother and her friends.” 

“Humph! yes, her friends,” said Mrs. Otway. “What 
relatives ax’e Sir Gordon Bourne and the Reverend Christie 
Bayle to the fair queen of my gallant soldier’s heart?” 

“I don’t know,” he said, impatiently. 

“ Why are they all going out to Port Jackson?” 

“ I don’t know. How should I?” 


THIS MAN''S WIFK. 


257 


1 “Oh, they might have told you in couversation.” 

“ I did not trouble myself about such things. Hang it 
kll! Mrs. Otway, how could I be so petty?” 

“ Is it not natural that a man should be anxious to know 
who and w'hat are the relatives of the lady he thinks of 
as his future wife?” 

“Oh, some sordid fellows would think of such things. 
I’m not going to marry her relations. 

“In some sort a man must,” said Mrs. Otway, coolly. 

“Look here,” cried the young officer, “ why do you talk 
to me like this?” 

“ Halloa! whai’s the matter?” cried Captain Otway, who 
had come up unobserved; “quarreling?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Otway, “ I am only giving Phil Eaton 
a little of the common- sense he seems to have been losing 
lately. Why do I talk to you like this, my dear Phil? I’ll 
tell you. Because the day before we sailed Lady Eaton 
came to me and said, ‘ You are a woman of experience, 
Mrs. Otway ; keep an eye upon my boy, and don’t let him 
get entangled in any way.’ ” 

“ My mother said that to you?” 

“Indeed she did; and now that you are running your 
head into a very pretty silken skein, and tangling your- 
self up in the most tremendous maimer, I think it is time 
for me to act.” 

“Quite right, Phil,” said the captain. “You wanted 
checking. The young lady is delicious, and all that is 
innocent and nice; but you are not content with a pleasant 
chat.” 

“No,” said the lieutenant, firmly; “I mean to marry 
her.” 

“Indeed!” said Otway, dryly. “Who and what is 
she?” 

“A lady of the greatest refinement and sweetness of 
character.” 

“ Granted ; but who is her mother?” 

“ Mrs. Hallam, a ladj^ whom, in spite of her sadness of 
disposition and distant ways, it is a privilege to know.” 

“Will you go on. Bell?” said Otway. 

“No! Oh, captain, you are talking grand sense! I’ll 
listen.” 

“ Well, then, here is another question. Who is Mr. Hal- 
lam?” 

“ How should I know? Some merchant or official out at 
Port Jackson. They are going to join him. Julie ” 

“ Holloa!” cried Mrs. Otway, “ has it come to that?” 

“Miss Hallam,” continued the young officer, flushing, 
“ told me that she had not seen her father for years.” 


258 


Tins MAN’S WIFE. 


Captain Otway turned to his wife, and she exchanged 
glances with him in a meaning way. 

Eaton looked sharply from one to the other, his eyes 
flashing, and his white teeth showing as he bit his lip. 

“What do you two mean?” he cried, angrily. 

“Oh, nothing!” said Otway, shrugging his shoulders. 

“I insist upon knowing!” cried Eaton. “You would 
not look like that without deep cause ; and it is not fair to 
me. Look here, I can’t bear it. You are thinking some- 
thing respecting these people ; and it is not like my old 
friends. Hang it all, am I a boy?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Otway, gently — “a foolish, hot-headed, 
impetuous boy. Now, my dear Phil, be reasonable. The 
young lady is very sweet and gentle, and sings charmingly. 
She is a delicious little companion for the voyage, and at 
your wish Jack and I have been very friendly, not feel- 
ing ourselves called upon, during a voyage like this, to 
inquire into people’s antecedents so long as they were 
pleasant,” 

“But ” 

“ Hear me out.” 

“Yes, hear her out, Phil; and don’t be a fool!” said 
Captain Otway!” 

“Mrs. Hallam and Miss Hallam are both very nice, and 
we liked them, and I should like them to the end of the 
voyage if you were not beginning to make yourself very 
stupid.” 

“Stupid! Oh, shame upon you, Mrs. Otway!” 

“ You say so now, my dear boy; but what would you 
say if we, your old friends, let you run blindly into an en- 
tanglement with a young lady whose antecedents would 
horrify Lady Eaton, your mother?” 

“I say shame again, Mrs. Otway !” cried Eaton. “ Why, 
everything contradicts your ideas. Would Mrs. and Miss 
Hallam have for friends and companions Sir Gordon 
Bourne and a clergyman? I had heard of Sir Gordon as an 
eccentric yachting baronet years ago.” 

“So had I,” said Captain Otway; “but they have only 
become acquainted since they were on board ship. Sir 
Gordon and the parson came on board at Plymouth.” 

“Now I am going to show you how unjust you both 
are!” cried Eaton, triumphantly. “Julie— I mean Miss 
Hallam— told me herself that she knew Sir Gordon Bourne 
when she was a little girl, and that Mr. Bayle had acted as 
her private tutor ever since she could remember.” 

“ And what did she say Mr. Hallam was?” 

“ She did not mention his name, and I did not ask her. 
Hang it, madam, what do you think he is?” 

“ I am not going to say, my dear Philip, because I should 


THIS MAN^S WIFH. 


259 


be sorry to misjudge any one; but please remember why 
we are going out to Port Jackson.” 

“Going out? Why, to join the regiinent — from the 
depot.” 

“ And when we join our regiment our duty is to ” 

‘ ‘ Guard the convicts ! Good heavens !’ ’ 

The young man sprung from the chair in which he had 
been lounging, and turned white as ashes; then he flushed 
with anger, turned pale again, and glared about the vessel. 

Just then Mrs. Hallam came out of the cabin with Julia 
and mounted to the after-deck, going slowly to the vessel’s 
side, as was her custom, to gaze away east and south, 
talking softly to her child the while. 

“Oh, it is impossible!” said Eaton, at last. “How dare 
you make such a charge?” 

“ My wife makes no charge, Phil,” said Captain Otway, 
firmly. “ She only tells you what we think. Perhaps we 
are wrong. ’ ’ 

“And now that you suspect this,” said Eaton, sarcastic- 
ally, “ are you both going to hold aloof from these ladies?” 

“Certainly not!” said Mrs. Otway, warmly. “I have 
always found them most pleasant companions during our 
voyage, and I am the last woman to visit the sins of one 
person on the rest of his family.” 

“And yet you abuse me for doing as you do!” cried 
Eaton , impetuously • 

“There are different depths of shading in a picture, my 
dear Phil,” said Mrs. Otway, laying her hand upon the 
young man’s arm. “ Be friendly to these people, as Jack 
there and I are about to be, to the end, but don’t go and 
commit yourself to an engagement with a convict’s daugh- 
ter.” 

“ Oh, this is too much!” cried Eaton, fiercely. 

“No, it is not, Phil,” said the captain, quietly. “I’m 
afraid my wife is right. ’ ’ 

As he was speaking, Mrs. Otway, who had left them, 
crossed the deck, and stood talking to Mrs. Hallam and 
Julia, who soon after left them, and Eaton saw her walk to 
where Sir Gordon was smoking the cigar just brought to 
him by Tom Porter, and then leave him to go timidly up 
to where Christie Bayle was leaning over the bulwarks, 
book in hand, and seeming to read. 


CHAPTER XV. 

SIR GORDON GETS OUT OF TEMPER. 

“Don’t— pray don’t look so agitated, dear mother,” 
whispered Julia, as they left the cabin one morning, after 
fin announcement by the captain that before many hours 


260 


THIS MAN^S WIFR 


had passed a new phase in the long voyage would take 
place, for they would see land. 

The news spread like lightning among the passengers, 
and was received with eager delight by those who had 
been cooped up gazing at sea and sky for months. 

“I will try and be calm,” said Mrs. Hallam; “but it 
seems at times more than I can bear. Think, Julie; only 
a few more hours and we shall see him again.” 

Julia’s fair young face contracted, and there was a 
strange fluttering about her heart. Mingled feelings trou- 
bled her. She was angry with herself that she did not 
share her mother’s joy; and strive how she would, she 
could not help feeling regret that the voyage was so near 
its end, and that they were to make a fresh plunge in life. 

She had trembled and shrunk from the voyage when it was 
first decided upon. There was so much of the unknown to 
encounter, and she had been so happy and contented in the 
simple home, that, unlike most young people of her age, 
novelty possessed for her few charms. But the voyage had 
proved, after the first few dreary days, one long succession 
of pleasant hours. Every one had been so kind. Mrs. Ot- 
way almost loving. Captain Otway frank and manly, and 
— she colored slightly as she thought of it all— Lieutenant 
Eaton so gentle and attentive to her every wish. 

Yes, for months he had been ready to hurry to her side, 
to wait upon her, to read aloud, turn over her music, and 
join in the duets with an agreeable, manly voice. Yes, it 
had all been very, very j^leasant, the only dark spots in 
the sunshine, the only do uds being that Sir Gordon had 
grown more testy, and ready to say harsh things ; and Mr. 
Bayle had become strangely cold and distant, so changed. 
He, who had been always so warm and frank, looked at her 
gravely. The old playful manner had completely gone, and 
the change troubled her young breast sorely. 

That morning, when Mrs. Hallam took her old place by 
the bulwarks to gaze away into the distance out of which 
the land she sought was to rise, Julia came to a determi- 
nation, and waiting her opportunity, she watched till Bayle 
had taken his place where he sat and read, and Sir Gordon 
was in his usual seat. 

For on shipboard the nature of the vessel’s management 
seems to communicate itself to the passengers. As they 
have special berths, so do they adopt special seats at the 
cabin- table, and when on deck, go by custom to regular 
places after their morning walk beneath the breeze -filled 
sails. 

Sir Gordon was in his seat, and Tom Porter on his way 
with a cigar and light, when Julia intercepted him, took 
them from him, and walked up to Sir Gordon’s seat, 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


261 


Halloa!” he said, shortly. ” You?” 

“Yes. I’ve brought you your cigar and light. 

She held them out^, and the old man took them, and lit 
the cheroot with all the careful dallying of an old smoker. 

“Thank ye,” he said, shortly; but Julia did not leave 
him, only stood looking down at the wrinkles of age and 
annoyance in the well-bred face. 

“ Well,” he said, “ what are you waiting for, my child?” 
His voice was a little softer as the wreaths of smoke rose 
in the soft southern air. 

“ I want to talk to you,” she said, looking at him wist- 
fully. 

“ Sit down, then. Ah, there’s no chair, and— where is 
our gay young officer to fetch one?” 

Julia did not answer, but gazed up in his face as she 
seated herself upon the deck by his low lounge-chair. 

“ Why do you speak to me so unkindly?” she said, with 
a naive innocence of manner that made the old man wince 
and cease smoking. 

“ Unkindly?” he said, at last. 

“Yes,” said Julia. “You have been so different. You 
are not speaking to me now as you used.” 

The old man frowned, looked from the upturned face at 
his side to where Mrs. Hallam was gazing out at sea, and 
back again. 

“Because I’m growing old. and am chilly, and pettish, 
and jealous, my dear,” he said at last, warmly. “Julia,” 
he cried, searchingly, “tell me; do you love this Lieuten- 
ant Eaton?” 

The girl’s face grew crimson, and her eyes flashed a look 
of resentment as she rose quickly to her feet. 

“No, no! don’t go, my dear,” he cried; but it was too 
late, even if the words could have stayed her. Julia was 
walking swiftly away, and Lieutenant Eaton, who was 
coming back from a morning parade of the company, in- 
creased his pace on seeing Julia, but she turned aside and 
walked toward Bayle. 

“Yes; but if- 1 had not just spoken to her,” muttered 
Sir Gordon, “she would have stopped. Well, it is only 
natural, and I had no business to speak— no business to 
trouble myself about her. Tom Porter says the old maid 
is bitterly mad about it, and declares the poor child is 
going to wreck her life as her mother did. The old cat ! 
How dare she think such a thing! The impudence f 
Wishes the ship may be wrecked first, and that we may 
all be drowned. Ah! you’re there, are you, sir?” 

“Yes, Sir Gordon. Another cheroot?” 

“Can’t you see I haven’t smoked this, fool? Here, give 
me a light I” 


262 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


Tom Porter’s mahogany face did not change as he pro- 
duced a piece of tinder and 'held it for his testy master to 
ignite his cigar. 

“Thank ye, Tom,” said Sir Gordon, changing his tone. 
“ Here, don’t go away. What did that woman say?” 

“ Miss Bing, Sir Gordon?” 

“Yes, you know wliorn I mean. About Miss Hallam?” 

“ Wished we might all be wrecked and drowned before 
it came off.” 

“ Before what came off?” 

“ A wedding with Lieutenant Eaton, Sir Gordon.” 

“Why?” 

“ Principally because she says he’s so handsome, Sir 
Gordon. She hates handsome men. ’ ’ 

“Humph! That’s why she’s so fond of you, Tom 
Porter.” 

“Which she ain’t. Sir Gordon,” said Tom Porter, dole- 
fully. 

“You had been talking about weddings, then?” 

“Well, just a little. Sir Gordon,” said Tom Porter, not 
a muscle of whose countenance moved. “I just said how 
nice it was to see two young folks so fond of each other.” 

“ As who?” 

“ As the luff tenant and Miss Jooly, Sir Gordon; and that 
it would be just as nice for two middle-aged folks who had 
kept it all in store. ’ ’ 

“And is she going to marry you, then, when we get to 
port?” 

“ No, Sir Gordon; it’s all over. She ain’t the marrying 
sort.” 

“Humph! Marry a black woman, then, to spite her, 
and then ask her to come and see your wife.” 

“ No, Sir Gordon, beggin’ your pardon, sir; I’ve been in 
the wrong, when I ought to have took you for an example. 
It’s all over, and I’m settled down thorough. I have seen 
but one woman as I thought I’d lilce to splice.” 

“And that was Mrs. Hallam’s old maid?” 

“ Yes, Sir Gordon.” 

“Why? She isn’t handsome.” 

“Not outside. Sir Gordon; and I don’t rightly know 
why I took to her, unless it was that she seemed so right 
down like — such a stick-to-you-through fair- weather- and- 
foul sort of woman. But it’s all over now, Sir Gordon. 
Things won’t turn out as one likes, and it’s of no use to 
try.” 

“You’re right, Tom Porter; you’re a better philosopher 
than your master. There, that will do. When shall we 
see land?” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


‘IQ'd 


“Morrow morning, Sir Gordon. Daybreak; not afore. 
Any orders ’bout the shore?” 

“ Orders? What are we to do when we get there? Torn 
Porter, if you could tell me what we are to do, I’d give 
you a hundred pounds. There, give me a light, my che* 
root’s out again!” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A SORE PLACE. 

“ Are you glad the voyage is nearly over?” said a soft 
little voice that made Bayle start. 

“ Glad?” he said, as he turned to gaze in Julia’s plaintive^ 
looking face — “no, I am sorry.” 

“Why?” 

“Why? Because you have seemed so happy.” He 
paused a few moments, as if afraid that his voice would 
tremble. “Because your mother has seemed so happy. ” 
And he added to himself, “ Because I tremble for all that 
is to come.” '' 

“Are you angry with me, Mr. Bayle?” said Julia, after 
a pause. 

“Angry with you, my child?” he said, with his eyes 
brightening, though there was a piteous look in his face. 
“ Oh no; how could I be?” 

“ I don’t know,” she replied, “but you have grown more 
and more changed. I have seen so little of you lately, and 
you have avoided me.” 

“ But you have not been dull. You have had many com- 
panions and friends.” 

“ Yes,” she said, quickly, “ and they have been so kind; 
but I have seemed to regret the past days when we were 
all so quiet and happy together.” 

“ Hush 1” he said, quickly. “ Don’t speak like that.” 

“ Not speak like that? There, now you are angry with 
me again.” 

“Angry? No, no, my child,” cried Bayle, whose voice 
trembled with emotion. “ I am not angry with you.” 

“ Yes; that’s how I like to hear you speak,” cried Julia. 
“That is how you used to* speak to me, and not in that 
grave, measured way, as if you were dissatisfied.” 

“Julia,” he said, hoarse with emotion, “how could I be 
dissatisfied when I see you happy? Has it not been the 
wish of my life?” 

“ Yes; I have always known it was. Now you make me 
happy again; and you will always speak so to me?” 

“Always,” he said, with his eyes lighting up with a 
strange fire. “Always, my child.” 

“That’s right,” she cried, “That is like my dear old 


264 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


master speaking to me again;” and her sweet, ingenuous 
eyes looked lovingly in his. 

But they saw no response to their tenderness, for the fire 
died out of Bayle’s gaze, the red spots faded from his 
cheeks, and an agonizing pang made him shudder, and 
then draw in a long, deep breath. 

At that moment Lieutenant Eaton approached, and 
Bayle saw the tell- tale color come' into Julia’s cheeks. 

“ It is fate, I suppose,” said Bayle, drawing back to give 
place to Eaton. 

Julia looked up at him quickly, as if she divined the 
words he had said to himself, but he did not speak, only 
smiled sadly, and walked toward where Mrs. Hallam was 
gazing over the side. 

He shuddered as he thought of the meeting that must 
take place, and walked up and down slowly, thinking of 
his position, unheeded by Mrs. Hallam, whose face was 
irradiated by the joy that filled her brea-st. 

He turned back to see that Eaton had led Julia to the 
other side of the vessel, and as she, too, stood with her 
hands resting on the bulwarks, Bayle could see that the 
young man’s face was bright and animated ; that he was 
talking quickly to the girl, whose head was slightly bent 
as though she were listening attentively to all he said. 

Christie Bayle drew a long breath as he walked slowly 
on. His old, patient, long-suffering smile came upon his 
face, and now his lip ceased quivering, and he said, 
softly : 

” If it is for her happiness, why not?” 

“And after all I have said,” exclaimed a quick voice be- 
yond the awning. “It’s too bad. Jack. He is proposing 
to her now. What shall we do?” 

“Nothing. Let him find all out for himself, and then 
cool down.” 

“And half break the poor girl’s heart. I don’t want 
that.” 

Bayle hurried away, feeling as if he could bear no more. 
The cabin seemed the best retreat, where he could take 
counsel with himself, and try and arrange some plan in 
which he could dispassionately leave out self, and act as he 
had vowed that he would— as a true friend to Millicent 
Hallam and her child. 

But he was not to reach his cabin without another men- 
tal sting, for as he descended he came upon Thisbe, looking 
red-eyed, as if she had been crying, and he stopped to speak 
to her. 

“ Matter, sir?” she answered; “and you ask me? Go 
back on deck and see for yourself, and say whether the old 
trouble is to come all over again.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


S65 


He felt as if he must speak angrily to the woman if ho 
stayed; and hurrying by her he shut himself in his 
cabin and stayed there for hours, with the bustle of prep- 
arations for landing going on all around, the home of 
many months being looked upon now as a prison which 
every passenger was longing to quit to gain the freedom of 
the shore. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

COMMUNING WITH SELF. 

It was evening when Bayle went on deck again, his old 
calm having returned. He stopped short, and the elas- 
ticity of spirit that seemed to have come back— a feeling of 
hopefulness in keeping with the light, champagny atmos- 
phere, so full of life— died out again, even as the breeze 
that had wafted them on all day had now almost failed, and 
the ship glided very slowly through the water, that looked 
like liquid gold. 

“A few short hours,” he said to himself, as he gazed at 
Mrs. Hallam standing with her arm round Julia, bathed in 
the evening light, watching the golden clouds upon the 
horizon that they were told were land — to them the land 
of hope and joy, but to Christie Bayle a land of sorrow 
and of pain. “A few short hours,” he said again, “and 
then the fond illusions must fall away, and they will be 
face to face with the truth.” 

He crept away, sick at heart, to the other side, where 
Lieutenant Eaton, who seemed to be hovering about 
mother and daughter, eager to join them, but kept away 
by respect for their desire to be alone, passed him with a 
short nod, hesitated as if about to speak, and then went 
on again. 

Bayle waited hour after hour, ready should those in his 
charge require his services ; but they did not move from 
their position, and it was Eaton who intercepted Thisbe 
and took from her the scarfs she was bringing to protect 
them from the night air; but only a few words passed, and 
he drew back to walk up and down till long after the 
Southern Cross was standing out among the glorious stars 
that looked so large and bright in the clear, dark sky 
above, when Mrs. Hallam drew a deep breath and whis- 
pered a few words to Julia, and they descended to their 
cabin for the night, but not to sleep. 

Then by degrees the deck was left to the watch, and a 
strange silence fell, for a change had come upon all on 
board. The first excitement that followed the lookout- 
man’s cry of “ Land ho!” had passed, and passengers and 
soldiers were gathered in groups after their busy prepara- 


206 THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

tion for the landing another day distant, and talked in 
whispers. 

Lower and lower sunk the weary spirit of Christie 
Bayle as he stood leaning on the bulwark, gazing away 
into the starry depths of the glorious night; for it seemed 
to him that his task was nearly done, that soon those 
whom he had loved so well would pass out of his care, and 
as he thought of Millicent Hallam sharing the home of her 
convict husband he murmured a prayer on her behalf. 
Then his thoughts of the mother passed, and he recalled 
all that he had seen during the past months; above all, 
Julia’s excited manner that day, and the conduct of Lieu- 
tenant Eaton. And as he pondered, his thoughts took 
somewhat this form : 

“Young, handsome, a thorough gentleman, what won- 
der that he should win her young love? But will he stand 
the test? A convict’s daughter — an officer of the king! 
He must know ; and if he does stand the test ’ ’ 

Christie Bayle stood with his hands clasped tightly to- 
gether, as once more a strange agony of soul pierced him 
to the core. He saw himself again the young curate en- 
tranced by the beauty of a fair young English girl in her 
happy home, declaring his love for her, laying bare his 
hopes, and learning the bitter lesson that those hopes were 
vain. He saw again the long years of peaceful friendship, 
with a new love growing for the child who had been his 
principal waking thoughts. He saw her grow to woman- 
hood, loving him as he had loved her — with a love that 
had been such as a father might bear his child, till the 
peaceful calm had been broken as he saw that Julia list- 
ened eagerly and with brightening eyes to the words of 
this young officer ; and now it was that like a blow the 
knowledge came, the knowledge that beneath all this love 
had been a love of a stronger nature, ready to burst forth 
and bloom when it was again too late. 

“A dream— a dream,” he said, sadly. “ How could she 
love me otherwise than as she said—as her dear master? 
A dream,” he said again. “ ‘ Thy will be done!’ ” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“at last!” 

A BUSY day on shipboard, with the excitement growing 
fast, and officers and men cheerfully turning themselves 
into guides and describers of the scenery on either hand. 

A glorious day, with a brisk breeze, and the white sails 
curving out, and the great vessel, that had borne them 
safely to their destination, careening gently over, and the 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 267 

white foam dividing and swelling away to starboard and 
to port. 

The sky overhead might have been that of Italy, so glori- 
ously bright and pure it seemed to all, as at last the ves- 
sel glided in between the guardian giants of the port, and 
then, as they stood well within the two great rocky 
precipices, the swell upon which they had softly swayed 
died away, the breeze sunk, and the great white sails 
flapped and filled and flapped, the ship slowly slackened 
its speed, and at last lay motionless, waiting for the tide 
that would bear them on to the anchorage within. 

It was evening when the tantalizing waiting was at an 
end, and the expectant groups saw themselves on(;e more 
gliding on and on into the land-locked estuary that minute 
by minute took more and more the aspect of some beau- 
teous lake. 

Seen by the glory of the sinking sun, and after the long, 
monotonous voyage, it was like some glimpse of Eden, and 
with one consent the soldiers sent forth a hearty cheer, 
which died away into silence as the great ship glided on. 
Jutting promontories, emerald islands, golden waters, and 
a sky like topaz, as the sun slowly sunk. Bays filled with 
roseate hues reflected from the sky, swelling hills in the 
distance of wondrous grayish green, with deepening curves 
of softly darkening shadows. The lake-like bay was with- 
out a ripple, and glistened as polished metal, and min’ored 
here and there the shore. Away in the distance mountain 
after mountain shone through the clear air ; and as the 
wearied travelers drank in the glorious scene there was a 
solemnity in its beauty that oppressed them, even unto 
tears. 

Millicent Hallam stood in that self-same spot where she 
had so patiently watched for this her promised land, and 
as she bent forward with half-extended hands, Julia saw 
her lips part, and heard from time to time some broken 
utterance, as the tears of joy fell slowly from her dreamy 
eyes. 

Time after time the most intimate of their fellow passen- 
gers approached, but there was that in the attitude of 
mother and daughter which commanded respect, and they 
drew back. 

On glided the ship, nearer and nearer, with the houses 
and rough buildings of the settlement slowly coming into 
sight, while, as the sun flashed from the windows, and 
turned the sand that fringed the shore for the time 
to tawny gold, the hearts of mother and daughter seemed 
to go out, to leap the intervening distance, and pour forth 
their longings to him who, they felt, was watching the 
ship that bore to him all he held dear. 


268 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


Golden changing to orange, to amber, to ruddy wine. 
Then one deep glow, and the lake- like harbor for a few 
minutes as if of molten metal cooling into purple, into 
black, and then the placid surface glistening with fallen 
stars. 

And as Julia pressed nearer to the trusting woman, who 
gazed straight before her at the lights that twinkled in the 
scattered houses of the port, she heard a sweet, rich voice 
murmur softly : 

‘ ‘ Robert, husband— I have come !’ ’ 

And again, soft as the murmur of the tide upon the 
shore. 

“ My God, I thank thee ! At last— at last !” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A STRANGE ENCOUNTER. 

It had been hard work to persuade her, but Mrs. Hallam 
had consented at last to rest quietly in the hotel, while 
Bajde obtained the necessary passes for her and her daugh- 
ter to see Hallam. This done, he took the papers and let- 
ters of recommendation he had brought and waited upon 
the governor. 

There was a good deal of business going on, and Bayle 
was shown into a side room where a clerk was writing, and 
asked to sit down. 

“Your turn will come in about an hour,” said the 
official who showed him in, and Bayle sat down to wait. 

As he looked up, he saw that the clerk was watching him 
intently; and as their eyes met, he said, in a low voice; 

“May I ask if you came out in the Sea King?” 

“Yes; I landed this morning.” 

“Any good news, sir, from the old country?” 

“Nothing particular; but I can let you have a paper or 
two, if you like. ’ ’ 

“ Thank you, sir; I should be very glad. But I meant 
Ireland. You thought I meant England.” 

“But you are not an Irishman?” 

“ Yes, sir. Have I forgotten my brogue?” 

“ I did not detect it.” 

“Perhaps I’ve forgotten it,” said the man, sadly, “as 
they seem to have forgotten me. Ten years make a good 
deal of difference.” 

“Have you been out here ten years?” 

“Yes, sir, more.” 

“ Do you know anything about the prisons?” 

The clerk flushed, and then laughed bitterly. 

“ Oh, yes,” he said; “ I know something about them.” 

“ And the prisoners?” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


2f)9 

“ Ye — es. Bah! what is the use of keeping it back! Of 
course I do, sir. I was sent out for the benefit of my 
country. ’ ’ 

“You?” 

“ Yes, sir; I am a lifer.” 

Bayle gazed at the man in surprise. 

“ You look puzzled, sir,” he said. “Why, almost every 
other man out here is a convict.” 

“ But you have been pardoned?” 

“ Pardoned? No; I am only an assigned servant. I can 
be sent back to the chain-gang at any time if I give offense. 
There, for Heaven’s sake, sir, don’t look at me like that! 
If I offended against the laws, I have been bitterly pun- 
ished.” 

“You mistake my looks,” said Bayle, gentl}^; “they 
did not express my feelings to you, for they were those of 
sorrow.” 

“ Sorrow?” said the man, who spoke as if he were mak- 
ing a great effort to keep down his feelings. “Ay, sir, 
you would say that if you knew all I had endured. It has 
been enough to make a man into a fiend, herding with the 
wretches sent out here, and at any moment, at the caprice 
of some brutal warden or other official, ordered the lash.” 

Bayle drew his breath between his teeth hard. 

“ There, I beg your pardon, sir; but the sight of a face 
from over the sea, and a gentle word, sets all the old pangs 
stinging again. I’m better treated now. This governor is 
a very different man from the last.” 

“ Perhaps you may get a full pardon yet,” said Bayle; 
“ your conduct has evidently been good.” 

“No. There will be no pardon for me, sir. I was too 
great a criminal.” 

“What But I have no right to ask you,” said 

Bayle. 

“ Yes, ask me, sir. My offense? Well, like a number of 
other hot-headed young men, I thought to make myself a 
patriot and free Ireland. That was my crime.” 

“ Tell me,” said Bayle, after a time, “did you ever en- 
counter a prisoner named Hallam?” 

“Robert Hallam — tall, dark, handsome man?” 

“Yes; that answers the description.” 

“ Sent over with a man named Crellock, for a bank rob- 
bery, was it not?” 

“ The same man. Where is he now !” 

“ He was up the country as a convict servant, shepherd- 
ing; but I think he is back in the gangs again. Some of 
them are busy on the new road.” 

“ Was he — supposed to be innocent out here?” 

“ Innocent ?~-no. It was having to herd with such scoun- 


m , THIS MAN\^ WIFE. 

drels made our fate the more bitter. Such men as he and 
his mate ” 

“ His mate?” 

“Yes— the man Crellock — were never supposed to be 
very ” 

He ceased speaking, and began to write quickly; fora 
door was opened, and an attendant requested Bayle to fol- 
low him. 

He was ushered into the presence of an officer, who apol- 
ogized for the governor being deeply engaged, consequent 
upon the arrival of the ship with the draft of men. But 
the necessary passes were furnished, and Bayle left. 

As he was passing out with the documents in his hand, 
he came suddenly upon Captain Otway and the lieutenant, 
both in uniform. 

Tlie captain nodded in a friendly way and passed on ; 
but Eaton stopped. 

“ One moment, Mr. Bayle,” he said, rather huskily. “I 
want you to answer a question. ” 

Bayle bowed, and then met his eyes calmly, and without 
a line in his countenance to betoken agitation. 

“I— I want you to tell me— in confidence, Mr. Bayle— 
why Mrs. Hallam and her daughter have come out here?” 

“ I am not at liberty, Lieutenant Eaton, to explain to a 
stranger Mrs. Hallam’s private affairs.” 

“Then will you tell me this: Why have you come here 
to-day? But I can see. Those are passes to allow you to 
go beyond the convict lines?” 

“ They are,” said Bayle. 

“That will do, sir,” said the young man, with his lip 
quivering; and, hurrying on, he rejoined Captain Otway, 
who was standing awaiting his coming in the doorway, in 
front of which a sentry was passing up and down. 

Bayle went back to the hotel, where Mrs. Hallam was 
waiting impatiently, and Julia with her, both dressed for 
going out. 

“You have been so long,” cried Mrs. Hallam; “but tell 
me — you have the passes?” 

“Yes, they are here,” he said. 

“Give them to me,” she cried, with feverish haste. 
“ Come, Julia.” 

“You cannot go alone, Mrs. Hallam,” said Bayle, in a 
remonstrant tone. “Try and restrain yourself. Then we 
will go on at once.” 

She looked at him half angrily; but the look turned to 
one of appeal as she moved toward the door. 

“ Blit are you quite prepared?” he whispered. “Do you 
still liold to the intention of taking Julia?” 

“Yes, yes,” she cried, fiercely. “Christie Bayle, you 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 271 

cannot feel with me. Do you not realize that it is the hiis 
band and father waiting to see his wife and child?” 

Bayle said no more then, but walked with them through 
the roughly-marked out streets of the embryo city, toward 
the convict lines. 

“ I shall see you to the gates,” he said, “secure your ad- 
mission, and then await your return.” 

Mrs. Hallam pressed his hand, and then, as he glanced 
at Julia, he saw that she was trembling and deadly pale. 
The next minute, however, she had mastered her emotion, 
and they walked quickly on, Mrs. Hallam with her head 
erect, and proud of mien, as she seemed in eveiy move- 
ment to be wishing to impress upon her child that they 
should rather glory in their visit than feel shame. There 
was something almost triumphant in the look she directed 
at Bayle, a look which changed to angry reproach as she 
saw his wrinkled brow and the trouble in his face. 

Half-way to the prison gates there was a measured tramp 
of jfeet, and a quick, short order was given in familiar 
tones. 

The next moment the head of a company of men came 
into sight, and Bayle recognized the faces. In the rear 
were Captain Otway and Lieutenant Eaton, both of whom 
saluted, Mrs. Hallam acknowledging each bow with the 
dignity of a queen. 

Bayle tried hard, but he could not help glancing at Julia, 
to see that she was deadly pale, but looking as erect and 
proud as her mother. 

Captain Otway’s company were told off on some special 
duty. They had just passed the prison gates; and it was 
next to impossible for Mrs. Hallam and her daughter to be 
going anywhere but to the large barracks devoted to the 
convicts. 

Bayle knew that the two officers must feel this as they 
saluted; and in spite of himself he could not forbear feeling 
a kind of gratification. For it seemed to him that hence- 
forth a gulf would be placed between them, and the 
pleasant friendship of the voyage be at an end. 

Mrs. Hallam knew it, but she did not shrink, and her 
heart bounded as she saw the calm demeanor of her child. 

The measured tramp of the soldiers’ feet was still heard, 
when a fresh party of men came into sight; and as he 
partly realized what Avas before him, Bayle stretched out 
his hand to arrest his companions. 

“Come back,” he said, quickly; “we will go on after 
these men have passed.” 

“No,” said Mrs. Hallam, firmly, “we will go on now. 
Christie Bayle, do you fancy that we should shrink from 
anything at a time like this?” 


272 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“But for her sake,” 'whispered Bayle. 

“She is my child, and we know our duty,” retorted Mrs. 
Hallam, proudly. 

But her face was paler, and she darted a quick glance at 
Julia, whose eyes dilated, and whose grasp of her mother’s 
arm was closer, as from out of the advancing group came 
every now and then a shriek of pain, with sharp cries, yells, 
and savage curses. 

The party consisted of a sergeant and three soldiers with 
fixed bayonets, one leading, two behind, a party of eight 
men in grotesque, rough garments, whose fetters clanked 
and jingled at every step. Four of them walked in front, 
following the first soldier, and behind them the other four 
carried a litter or stretcher, upon which, raised on a level 
with their shoulders, they bore a man who was writhing in 
acute pain, and now cursing his bearers for going so fast, 
now directing his oaths against the authorities. 

“ It’ll be your turn next,” he yelled, as he threw an arm 
over the side of the stretcher. “ Can’t you go slow? Ah, 
the cowards! — the cowards!” 

Here the man rolled out a fierce volley of imprecations, 
his voice sounding hoarse and strange; but his bearers, 
morose, pallid-looking men, with a savage, downcast look, 
paid no heed, tramping on with their chains, that passed 
from an iron cincture down to each ankle, clanking loudly, 
and the soldiers taking it all as a matter of course. 

At a glance the difference between them was most 
marked. The soldiers had a smart, independent air -there 
was an easy-going, cheery look in their brown faces; while 
in those of the men they guarded, and upon whom they 
would have been called to fire if there were an attempt to 
escape, there were deeply stamped in the hollow cheek, 
sunken eye, and graven lines, crime, misery, and degrada- 
tion, and that savage recklessness that seems to lower man 
to a degree far beneath the beast of the jungle or wild. 
The closely cropped hair, the shorn chins with the stubble 
of several days’ growth, and the fierce glare of the con- 
victs’ overshadowed eyes as they caught sight of the two 
well-dressed ladies, sent a thrill through Bayle’s breast, 
and he would gladly have even now forced his companions 
to retreat, but it was impossible. For, as they came up, 
the ruffian on the stretcher, to which he was strapped, 
uttered an agonizing cry of pain, and then yelled out the 
one word, “Water!” 

Julia uttered a low, sobbing cry, and before Bayle or 
Mrs. Hallam could realize her act, she had started forward 
and laid her hand upon the sergeant’s arm, the tears 
streaming down her cheeks as she cried: 


THIS 31 AN'S WIFE. 


273 


“Oh, sir, do you not hear him? Is there no water 
here?” 

‘ ‘ Halt !’ shouted the sergeant ; and with military preci- 
sion the cortege stopped. ” Set him down, lads.” 

The convicts gave a half-turn and lowered the handles of 
the stretcher, retaining them for a moment, and then, in 
the same automatic way, placed their burden on the dusty 
earth. It was quickly and smoothly done in silence; but 
the movement seemed to cause the man intense pain, and 
he writhed and cursed horribly at his bearers, ending by 
asking again for water. 

“It isn’t far to the hospital, miss,” said the sergeant, 
“and he has had some once. Here, Jones, give me your 
canteen.” 

One of the privates unslung his water -tin and handed it 
to Julia, who seized it eagerly, while the sergeant turned 
to Bayle and said, in a quick whisper: 

“ Hadn’t you better get the ladies away, sir?” 

By this time Julia was on her knees by the side of the 
stretcher, holding the canteen to the lips of the wretched 
man, who drank with avidity, rolling his starting eyes 
from side to side. 

“ Has there been a battle?” whispered Julia to the sol- 
dier who had handed her the water- tin. “ He is dread- 
fully wounded, is he not? Will he die?” 

Julia’s quickly following questions were heard by the 
eight convicts, who were looking on with heavy, brutal 
curiosity ; but not one glanced at his companions. 

“Bless your heart, no, miss. A few days in the hospi 
tal will put him right,” said the soldier, smiling. 

“How can you be so cruel?” panted the girl, indig 
nantly. “Suppose you were lying there?” 

“Well, I hope, miss,” said the man, good-humoredly, 
“ that if I had been blackguard enough to have my back 
scratched I should not be such a cur as to howl like that.” 

“Julia, my child, come away,” whispered Bayle, tak- 
ing her hand and trying to raise her as the sergeant looked 
on good-humoredly. “ The man has been flogged for some 
offense. This is no place for you.” 

“Hush!” she cried, as, drawing away her hand, she 
bent over the wretched man and wiped the great drops of 
perspiration from his forehead. 

He ceased his restless writhing and gazed up at the sweet 
face bending over him with a look of wonder. Then his 
eyes dilated and his lips parted. The next moment he had 
turned his eyes upon Mrs. Hallam, who was bending over 
her child half trying to raise her, but with a horrible fas- 
cination in her gaze, while a curious silence seemed to 
have fallen on the group — so curious, that when one of the 


274 


THIS 3IAN’S WIFE. 


convicts moved slightly, the clank of his fetters sounded 
strangely loud in the hot sunshine. 

“ By your leave, miss,” said the sergeant, not unkindly. 
“I daren’t stop. Fall in, my lads! Stretchers! For- 
ward!” 

As the man, who was perfectly silent now, was raised by 
the convicts to the level of their shoulders, he wrenched 
his head round that he might turn his^ distorted features, 
purple with their deep flush, and continue his wondering 
stare at Julia and then at Mrs. Hallam. 

Then the tramp and clank, tramp and clank, went on, 
the soldiers raising each a hand to his forehead, and smil- 
ing at the group they left, while the sergeant took off his 
cap, the sun shining down on a good, manly, English face, 
as he took a step toward Julia. 

“I beg pardon, miss,” he said; “I’m only a rough fel- 
low— but if you’d let me kiss your hand?” 

Julia smiled in the sergeant’s brown face as she laid 
her white, little hand in his, and he raised it almost rever- 
ently to his lips. 

Then, saluting Mrs. Hallam, he turned quickly to Bayle. 

“I did say, sir, tJiat this place was just about like — you 
know what; but I see we’ve got angels even here.” 

He went off at the double after his men, twenty paces 
ahead, while Bayle, warned by Julia, had just time to 
catch Mrs. Hallam as she reeled and would have fallen. 

“Mother, dear mother!” cried Julia. “This scene was 
too terrible for you.” 

‘ ‘ No, no ! I am better now, ” said Mrs. Hallam, hoarsely. 
“Let us go on. Did you see?” she whispered, turning to 
Bayle. 

“See?” he said, reproachfully. “Yes; but I tried so 
hard to spare you this scene. ” 

“ Yes; but it was to be,” she said, in the sdlVie hoarse 
whisper, as with one hand she held Julia from her, and 
spoke almost in her companion’s ear. “You did not know 
him,” she said. “ I did— at once.” 

“ That man?” 

“Yes.” 

Then, after a painful pause, she added, “ It was Stephen 
Crellock.” 

“Her husband’s associate and friend,” said Bayle, as he 
stood outside the prison gates waiting ; for after the pres 
entation of the proper forms Millicent Hallam and her 
child had been admitted by special permission to see the 
prisoner named upon their pass, and Christie Bayle re- 
mained without, seeing in imagination the meeting” be- 
tween husband, wife and child ; and as he waited, seated 
pn a block of stone, his head went down upon his hands, 


THIS 3TAN^S WIFE. 


275 


and his spirit sunk very low, for all was dark upon the 
life- path now ahead. 


CHAPTER XX. 

IN THE CONVICT BARRACKS. 

“ Be firm, my darling,” whispered Mrs. Hallam; and as 
they followed their guide, hand-in-hand, Julia seemed to 
take strength and fortitude from the proud, pale face, and 
eyes bright with matronly love and hope. 

“ Mother!” 

Only that word, but it was enough. Millicent Hallam 
Avas satisfied, for she read in the tone, and in the look that 
accompanied it, the fact that her teaching had not been in 
vain, and that she had come to meet her martyr husband 
with the love of wife and child. 

The officer who showed them into a bare room, with its 
grated windows, glanced at them curiously before leaving 
them ; and then they had to wait through what seemed to 
them an age of agony, listening to the slow, regular tramp 
of a couple of sentries, one seeming to be in a passage 
close at hand, the other beneath the window of the room 
where they were seated upon a rough bench. 

“ Courage, my child,” said Mrs. Hallam, looking at Julia 
with a smile; and then it was the latter who had to start 
up and support her, for as there was the distant sound of 
feet and the clank of fetters, Mrs. Hallam’s face con- 
tracted as from some terrible spams, and she swayed side- 
wise. 

“Heaven give me strength!” she groaned; and then 
clinging together, the suffering women watched the door 
as the heavy tramp came nearer, and with it that clink- 
clank of '"‘"ains. 

As Julia watched the door the remembrance of the 
stern, handsome face of her childhood seemed to come up 
from the past— that face, with the profusion of well- tended, 
wavy black hair, brushed back from the high, white fore- 
head ; the bright, piercing eyes that were shaded by long, 
heavy lashes; the closely shaven lips and chin, and the 
thick, dark whiskers — the face of the portrait in their lit- 
tle London home. And it seemed to her that she would see 
it again directly, that the old sternness would have given 
place to a smile of welcome, and as her heart beat fast her 
eyes filled Avith tears, and she Avas gazing through a mist 
that dimmed her sight. 

The door was thrown open; the clink-clank of the fet- 
ters was heard, and as the door was abruptly closed, 
mother and daughter remained unmoved, clinging more 
tightly together, staring Avildly through their tear-blinded 


276 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


eyes at the gaunt convict standing there, with face that 
seemed to have been stamped in the mold of the poor 
wretch’s they had so lately seen: closely cropped gray hair, 
stubbly, silvered beard, and face drawn in a halbderisive 
smile, 

“Well!” he said, in a strange, ahoarse voice that was 
brutal in its tones; and a sound issued from his throat that 
bore some resemblance to a laugh. “ Am I so changed?” 

‘ ‘ Robert 1 Husband ! ’ ’ 

“ The words rang through the cell Tike room like the cry 
of some stricken life, and then the fetters gave a dull clank 
as Millicent Hallam threw herself upon his breast. 

He bent over her as he held her tightly, and placed his 
mouth to her ear, while the beautiful quivering lips were 
turned toward his in their agony of longing for his wel- 
coming kiss. 

“ Hush! listen!” he said, and he gave her a sharp shake. 
“Have you brought the tin case?” 

She nodded as she clung to him, clasping him more 
tightly to her heaving breast. 

“You’ve got it safely?” 

She nodded quickly again. 

“Where is it?” 

She breathed hard, and attempted to speak, but it was 
soiiie time before she could utter the expected words. 

“Why don’t you speak?” he said, in a rough whisper. 
“You have it safe?” 

She nodded again. 

“ Where?” 

“ It— it is at— the hotel,” panted Mrs. Hallam. 

“Quite safe?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Unopened?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Thank God!” 

His maimer seemed to change, his eyes brightened, and 
his brutalized countenance altogether looked less repellent, 
as he uttered those words. As he stood there at first, his 
head hung, as it were, forward from between his shoul- 
ders, and his whole attitude had a despicable, cringing, 
trampled -down look that now seemed to pass away. He 
filled out and drew himself up; his eyes brightened as if 
hope had been borne to him by the coming of wife and 
child. It was no longer the same man, so it seemed to 
J ulie as she stood aloof, trembling and waiting for him to 
speak to her. 

“Good girl! good wife!” said Hallam, in a low voice; 
and his fetters clinked again as he kissed the quivering 
woman, who^ as she clasped him to her heart and grew to 


THIS MAHS WIFE. 


211 


him once more, saw nothing of the change, but closed her 
eyes mentally and really, the longing of years satisfied, 
everything forgotten, even the presence of Julie, in the 
great joy of being united once again. 

“There!” he said, suddenly; “ that must do now. There 
is only a short time, and I have lots to say, my gal.” 

Millicent Hallam’s eyes opened, and she quite started 
back from her love-romance to reality, his words sounded 
so harsh, his language was so coarse and strange; but she 
smiled again directly, a happy, joyous smile, as, nestling 
within her husband’s left arm, she laid her cheek upon the 
coarse woolen convict garb, and, clinging there, sent, 
with a flash from her humid eyes, a loving invitation to 
her child. 

She did not speak ; but her action was eloquent as words, 
and bade the trembling girl take the place she had half 
vacated, the share she offered — the strong right arm, and 
half of her husband’s breast. 

Julia read and knew, and in an instant she, too, was 
clinging to the convict, looking piteously in his scarred, 
half-brutal countenance, with eyes that strove so hard to 
be full of love, but which gazed through no medium of 
romance. Strive how she would, all seemed so hideously 
real — this hard, coarse -looking, brutal-voiced man was not 
the father she had been taught to reverence and love ; it 
was with a cry full of misery and despair that she gazed 
at him with her lips quivering, and then burst into a wild 
fit of sobbing as she buried her face in his breast. 

“There, there, don’t cry,” he said, almost impatiently; 
and there was no working of the face, nothing to indicate 
that he was moved by the passionate woe of his faithful 
wife, or the agony of the beautiful girl whose sobs shook 
his breast. “Time’s precious now. Wait till I get out 
of this place. You go and sit down, Julie. By Jingo!” 
he continned, with a look of admiration as he held her off 
at arm’s-length, “ what a handsome gal you’ve grown ! No 
sweetheart yet, I hope?” 

Julia shrunk from him with scarlet face; and as he loosed 
her hand she shrunk back to the rough seat, with her eyes 
wild and troubled and her hands trembling. 

“Now, Milly, my gal,” said Hallam, drawing his wife’s 
arm through his, and leading her beneath the window, as 
he spoke in a low voice once more, “ you have that case, 
safe and unopened?” 

“ Yes.” 

‘ ‘ Then look here. Business ! I must be rough and plain 
now. You have brought me my freedom.” 

“Eobert!” 

Only that word, but so full of frantic joy. 


278 


THIS MAN'^S WIPH, 

“ Quiet, and listen. You will do exactly as I tell you?'^ 

“Yes; can you doubt?” 

“No. Now look here. You will take a good house at 
once — the best you can. If you can’t get one — they’re very 
scarce— the hotel will do. Stay there, and behave as if you 
were well off — as you are.” 

“ Robert, I have nothing,” she gasped. 

“Yes, you have,” he said, with a laugh. “ I have; and 
we are one.” 

“You have? Money?” 

“ Of course. Do you suppose a man is at work out here 
for a dozen years without making money? There! don’t 
you worry about that; you’re new. You’ll find plenty of 
men, who come out as convicts, rich men now, with land 
of their own. But we are wasting time. I tell you you 
have brought out my freedom.” 

“Your pardon?” 

“No. Nonsense! I shall have to stay out here; but it 
does not matter now. Only go and do as I tell you, and 
carefully ; for you are only a woman in a strange place, 
and alone till you get me out.” 

“ Mr. Bayle is here, and Sir Gordon ” 

“ Bayle!” cried Hallaii, catching her wrist with a fierce 
grip, and staring in an*angry way at the agitated face 
before him. 

“Yes; he has been so helpful and true all through our 
trouble, and ” 

“Curse Bayle!” he muttered. Then aloud, and in a 
fierce, impatient way, “Never mind that now. I shall 
have to go back to the gang directly, and I have not said 
half I want to say.” 

“ I will not speak again,” she said, eagerly. “Tell me 
what to do.” 

“Take house or apartments at once; behave as if you 
were well off; I tell you that you are; do all yourself, and 
send in an application to the authorities for two assigned 
servants.” 

“ Assigned servants?” 

“Yes; convict servants,” said Hallam, impatiently. 
“There! you must know. There are so many that the 
goverment are glad to get the well behaved convicts off 
their hands, and into the care of settlers who undei’take 
their charge. You want two men, as you have settled 
here. You will have papers to sign, and give undertak- 
ings; but do it all boldly, and you will select two. They 
won’t ask you any questions about your taking up land— 
they are too glad to get rid of us. If they do ask any- 
thing, you can boldly say you want them for butler and 
coachman.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


279 


“But, Robert, I do not understand.” 

“ Do as I tell you,” he said, sharply. “ You will select 
two men— myself and Stephen Crellock.” 

“Yourself and Stephen Crellock?” 

“Yes. There! don’t look so bewildered, woman. It is 
the regular thing, and we shall be set at liberty.” 

” At liberty?” 

“ Yes, to go anywhere in the colony. You are answer- 
able to the government for us.” 

” But, Robert, you would come as — my servant?” 

”Pooh! only in name. So long as you claim us as your 
servants, that is all that is wanted. Plenty are freed on 
those terms; and once they are out, go and live with their 
families, like any one else.” 

‘ ‘ This is done here ?’ ’ 

“To be sure it is. I tell you that once a man has been 
in the gangs here for a few years they are glad to get him 
off their hands, so as to leave room for others who are 
coming out. Why, Milly, they could not keep all who 
are sent away from England, and people are easier and 
more forgiving out here. Hundreds of those you see here 
are lags.” 

“Lags?” * 

“Bah! how innocent you ar^. Well, convicts. Now, 
quick! they are coming. You understand?” 

“Yes.” 

“ And you will do as I tell you?” 

“Everything,” said Mrs. Hallam. 

“ Of course you cannot make this a matter of secrecy. 
It does not matter who knows. But the tin case; remem 
ber that is for me alone.” 

“But the authorities,” said Mrs. Hallam; “they will 
know I am your wife.” 

“The authorities will trouble nothing about it. I have 
a fairly good record, and they will be glad. As for Crel- 
lock ” 

‘ ‘ That man 1’ ’ gasped Mrs. Hallam. 

“Well?” 

“We saw him— as we came.” 

Hallam’ s face puckered. 

“Poor fellow,” he said, hastily. “Ah, that was a 
specimen of the cruel treatment we receive. It was un- 
fortunate. But we can’t talk about that. There they are. 
Remember!” 

She pressed the coarse, hard hand that was holding hers 
as tlie door was thrown open, and without another word 
Hallam obeyed the sign made by the officer in the door- 
way, and as the two women crept together, Julia receiving 
no further recognition, they saw him sink from his erect 


280 


THIS MAN^S WIFK 


position, his head went down, his back rounded, and he 
went out with his fetters clanking. 

Then the door shut loudly, and they stood listening, as 
the steps died away, save those of the sentries in the pas- 
sage and beneath the window. 

The silence, as they stood in that blank, cell like room, 
was terrible; and when at last Julia spoke, her mother 
started and stared at her wildly from the confused rush of 
thought that was passing through her brain. 

“ Mother, is it some dreadful dream?” 

Mrs. Hallam’s lips parted, but no words came, and for 
the moment she seemed to be sharing her child’s mental 
shock, the terrible disillusionizing to which she had been 
subjected. 

The recovery was quick, though, as she drew a long 
breath. 

‘‘Dream? No, my child, it is real; and at last we can 
rescue him from his dreadful fate.” 

Whatever thoughts she may have had that militated 
against her hopes she crushed down, forcing herself to see 
nothing but the result of a terrible persecution, and ready 
to be angered with herself for any doubts as to what was 
her duty. 

In this spirit she followed the man who had led them in 
back to the gates, where Bayle was waiting; and as he 
gazed anxiously in the faces of the two women, it was to 
see Julia’s scared, white, and ready to look appealingly in 
his, while Mrs. Hallam’s was radiant and proud with the 
light of her true woman’s love and devotion to him she told 
herself it was her duty to obey. 

That night mother and daughter, clasped in each other’s 
arms, knelt and prayed, the one for strength to carry out 
her duty, and restore Robert Hallam to his place in the 
world of men; the other for power to love the father 
whom she had crossed the great ocean to gain — the man 
who had seemed to be so little like the father of her 
dreams. 


o- 


mis MAN’S WIFE, 


281 


BOOK IV. 

m THE NEW LAND. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE SITUATION. 

“ Look here, Bayle, this is about the maddest thing I 
ever knew. Will you have the goodness to tell me why we 
are stopping here?’’ 

Bayle looked up from the book he was reading, in the 
pleasant room that formed their home, one which Tom 
Porter had found no difficulty in fitting up in good cabin 
style. 

A year had glided by since they landed, a year that Sir 
Gordon had passed in the most unsatisfactory way. 

“ Why are we stopping here?” 

“Yes. Didn’t I speak plainly? Why are we stopping 
here? For goodness’ sake, Bayle, don’t you take to ag- 
gravating me by repeating my words! I’m irritable 
enough without that!” 

“ Nonsense, my dear old friend !” cried Bayle, rising. 

“Hang it, man, don’t throw my age in my teeth! I 
can’t help being old!” 

“May 1 live to be as old,” said Bayle, smiling, and lay- 
ing his hand on Sir Gordon’s shoulder. 

“ Bah ! don’t pray for that, man ! Why should you want 
to live? To see all your pet schemes knocked on the head, 
and those you care for go to the bad, while your aches 
and pains increase, and you are gliding down the hill of 
life a wretched, selfish old man, unloved, uncared for. 
There, it is all a miserable mistake.” 

“ Uncared for, eh?” said Bayle. “ Have you no friends?” 

“Not one,” groaned the old man, writhing, as he felt a 
twinge in his back. “Oh, this bitter south wind! it’s 
worse than our north !” 

“Shame! Why, Tom Porter watches you night and 
day. He would die for you.” 

“So would a dog. The scoundrel only thinks of how 
much money I shall leave him when I go.” 

Unheard "by either, Tom Porter had entered the room 
sailor fashion, barefoot, in the easy canvas suit he wore 
when yachting with his master. He had brought in a 
basin of broth of his own brewing, as he termed it— for 
Sir Gordon was unwell— a plate with a couple of slices of 
bread of his own toasting in the other hand, and he was 


282 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


holding the silver spoon from Sir Gordon’s traveling can- 
teen beneath his chin. 

He heard every word as he stood waiting respectfully to 
bring in his master’s “levens,” as he called it; and in- 
stead of getting the sherry from the cellaret, he began 
screwing up his hard face, and showing his emotion by 
working about his bare toes. 

As Sir Gordon finished his bitter speech, Tom Porter 
took a step forward, and threw the basin of mutton broth, 
basin, plate, and all, under the grate with a crash, and 
stalked toward the door. 

“You scoundrel!” roared Sir Gordon. “You, Tom 
Porter, stop!” 

“ Sha'n’t !” growled the man. “ There’s mutiny on, and 
I leave the ship.” 

Bang ! 

The door was closed violently, and Sir Gordon looked 
helplessly up at Bayle. 

“ There, you see!” 

“Yes,” said Bayle, “I see. Poor fellow! Why did you 
wound his feelings like that?” 

“There!” cried Sir Gordon; “now you side with the 
scoundrel. Twenty- five years has he been with me, and 
look at my soup!” 

Bayle laughed. 

“Yes, that’s right; laugh at me. I’m getting old and 
weak. Laugh at me. I suppose the next thing will be 
that you will go off and leave me here in the lurch.” 

“That is just my way, is it not?” said Bayle, smiling. 

“ Well, no,” grumbled Sir Gordon; “ I suppose it is not. 
But then you are such a fool, Bayle. I haven’t patience 
with you!” 

“ I’m afraid I am a great trial to you.” 

“ You are— a terrible trial; every one’s a terrible trial — 
everything goes wrong. That blundering ass, Tom Porter, 
must even go and knock a hole in the Sylph on the 
rocks.” 

“ Yes; that was unfortunate,” said Bayle. 

‘ ‘ Here, I shall go back. It’s of no use staying here. 
Everything I see aggravates me. Matters are getting 
worse with the Hallams. Let’s go home, Bayle.” 

Christie Bayle stood looking straight before him for 
some time, and then shook his head slowly. 

“No, not yet,” he said, at last. 

“But I can’t go back without you, man; and it’s of no 
use to stay. As I said before— Why am I stopping here?” 

Bayle looked at him in his quiet, smiling way for some 
moments before replying. * 


283 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

‘‘In the furtherance of your old .scheme of unselfishness, 
and in the hope of doing good to the friends we love.” 

“Oh, nonsense! Tush, man! Absurd! I wanted to be 
friends, and be helpful; but that’s all over now. See what 
is going on. Look at that girl. Next thing we hear will 
be that she is married to one of those two fellows.” 

“I think if she accepted Lieutenant Eaton, and he mar- 
ried her, and took her away from this place, it would be 
the best thing that could happen.” 

“ Humph! I don’t!” muttered Sir Gordon. “Then look 
at Mrs. Hallam.” 

Bayle drew in his breath with a low hiss. 

“ It’s horrible, man, it’s horrible!” cried Sir Gordon, ex- 
citedly. “Bayle, you know how I loved that woman 
twenty years ago. Well, it was impossible; it would have 
been May and December even then, for I’m a very old 
man, Bayle — older than you think. I was an old fool, per- 
haps, but it was my nature. I loved her very dearly. It 
was not to be ; but the old love isn’t dead. Bayle, old fel- 
low, if I had been a good man I should say that the old 
love was purified of its grosser parts, but that would not 
fit with me.” 

“Why judge yourself so harshly?” 

“ Because 1 deserve it, man. Well, well, time went on, 
and when we met again I can’t describe what I felt over 
that child. At times, when her pretty, dark face had the 
loo);: of that scoundrel Hallam in it, I hated her; but when 
her eyes lit up with that sweet, innocent smile, the tears 
used to come into mine, and I felt as if it was Millicent 
Luttrell, a child again, and that it would have been the 
culmination of earthly happiness to have said : Tiiis is my 
darling child.” 

“Yes,” said Bayle, softly. 

“I worshiped that girl, Bayle. It was for her sake I 
came Over here to this horrible pandemonium, to watch 
over and be her guardian. I could not have stayed away. 
But I must go now. I can’t bear it; I can’t stand it any 
longer.” 

“ You will not go,” said Bayle, slowly. 

“Yes, I tell you, I must. It is horrible. I don’t think 
she is ungrateful, poor child ; but she is being brutalized 
by companionship with that scoundrel’s set.” 

“No, no! For Heaven’s sake don’t say that.” 

^‘I do say it,” cried the old man, impetuously, “she and 
her mother too. How can they help it with such surround- 
ings? The decent people will not go — only that Eaton and 
Mrs. Otway. Bless the woman ! I thought her a forward, 
shameless soldier’s Avife, but she has the heart of a true 
lady, and keeps\o the Hallams in spite of all.” 


284 THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

“It is very horrible,” said Bayle; “but we are help- 
less.” 

“Helpless! Yes: if he would only kill himself with his 
wretched drink, or get made an end of somehow.” 

“Hush!” said Bayle, rather sternly; “don’t talk like 
that.” 

“ Now you are beginning to bully me, Bayle,” cried the 
old man, querulously. “ Don’t you turn against me. I 
get insults enough at that scoundrel Hallam’s— enough to 
make my blood boil.” 

“Yes, I know, I know,” said Bayle. 

“ And yet, old idiot that I am, I go there for the sake of 
these women, and bear it all — I, whom people call a gentle- 
man, I go there and am civil to the scoundrel who robbed 
me, and put up with his insolence and his scowls. But 
I'm his master still. He dare not turn upon me. I can 
make him quail when I like. Bayle, old fellow,” he cried, 
with a satisfied chuckle, “how the scoundrel would like to 
give me a dose.” 

Bayle sat down with his brow full of the lines of care. 

“ I’m not like you, ” continued Sir Gordon, whom the re- 
lation of his trouble seemed to relieve — “ I won’t be driven 
away. I think you were wrong.” 

“No,” said Bayle, quietly, “it, was causing her pain. 
It was plain enough that in his sordid mind my presence 
was a greater injury than yours. He was wearing her life 
away, and I thought it better that our intimacy should 
grow less and less.” 

“But, my boy, that’s where you were wrong. Bad as 
the scoundrel is, he would never have had a jealous thought 
of that saint— there, don’t call me irreverent — I say it 
again, that saint of a woman.” 

“Oh, no, I can’t think that myself,” said Bayle, “but 
my presence was a standing reproach to him. ’ ’ 

“ How could it be more than mine?” 

“You are different. He always hated me from the first 
time we met at King’s Castor.” 

“ I believe he did,” said Sir Gordon, warmly; “but see 
how he detests the sight of me.” 

“ Yes, but you expressed the feeling only a few minutes 
ago when you said you were still his master and you made 
him quail. My dear old friend, if I could ever have in- 
dulged in a hope that Eobert Hallam had been unjustly 
punished, his behavior toward you would have swept it 
away. It is always that of the conscience-stricken man - 
his unreasoning dislike of the one whom he has wronged.” 

“Perhaps you are right, Bayle, perhaps you are right. 
But there was no doubt about his guilt— a scoundrel — and I 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


285 


am as sure as I am that I live, the rascal made a hoard 
somehow, and is living upon it now. ’ ’ 

“You think that? What about the sealing specula- 
tion?” ^ ^ 

“Ah! he and Crellock have made some money by it, no 
doubt, but not enough to live as they do. I know that 
Hallam is spending my money arid triumphing over me all 
the time, and I would not care if those women were free of 
him, but I’m afraid that will never be.” 

Bayle remained silent, 

“ Do you think she believes in his innocence still?” 

Bayle remained silent lor a time, and then said, slowly : 
“ I believe that Millicent Hallam, even if she discovered 
his guilt, and could at last believe in it, would suffer in 
secret, and bear with him in the hope that he would re- 
pent.” 

“ A.nd never leave him?” 

“Never,” said Bayle, firmly, “unless under some ter- 
rible provocation, one so great that no woman could bear ; 
and from that provocation, and the death-blow it would be 
to her, I pray Heaven she may be spared.” 

“Amen!” said Sir Gordon, softly. 

“ Bayle,” he added, after a pause, “I am getting old and 
irritable; I feel every change. I called you a fool!” 

“ The irritable spirit of pain within— not you.” 

“Ah, well!” said Sir Gordon, smiling, “you know me 
by heart now, my dear boy. I want to say something 
very serious to you. I never said it before, though I have 
thought about it ever since those happy evenings we spent 
at Clerkenwell. ” • 

Bayle turned to him wonderingly. 

“ You will bear with me— I may hurt your feelings.’’ 

“ If you do I know you will heal them the next time we 
meet,” replied Bayle. 

“ Well, then, tell me this. When I first began visiting 
at Mrs. Hallam’ s house there in London, had you not the 
full intention of some day asking Julie to be your wife?” 

Christie Bayle turned his manly, sincere countenance 
full upon his old friend, and said, in a deep, low voice, 
broken by emotion : 

“ Such a thought had never entered my mind.” 

“Never?” 

“ Never, on my word as a man.” 

“ You tell me that you have never loved Julie Hallam 
save as a father might love his child?” 

Bayle shook his head slowly, and a piteous look came 
into his eyes. 

“ No,” he said, softly, “ I cannot.” 

“Then you do love her,” cried the old man, joyfully. 


286 THIS MAN^S WIFE, 

“Now we shall get out of the wood. Why, my dear 
boy ” 

“ Hush!” said Bayle, sadly. “ I first learned what was 
in my heart when our voyage was half over.” 

“ And you saw her chatting with that dandy young offi- 
cer. Oh I pooh, pooh ! that is nothing. She does not care 
for him.” 

Bayle shook his head again. 

“ Why, my dear boy, you must end all this.” 

“You forget,” said Bayle, sadly. “History is repeating 
itself. Remember your own affair.” 

“ Ah! but I was an old man; you are young.” 

“Young!” said Bayle, sadly. “No, I was always her 
old master; and she loves this man.” 

“I cannot think it,” cried Sir Gordon, “and what is 
more, I am sure that Hallam has plans of his own-look 
there.” 

There were the sounds of horses’ feet on the newly made 
government road that passed the house Sir Gordon had 
chosen on account of its leading down on one side to where 
lay his lugger, in which he spent half his time cruising 
among the islands, and in fine weather out and along the 
Pacific shore; on the other side, to the eastward of the huge 
billows that rolled in with their heavy, thunderous roar. 

As Bayle looked up, he saw Julia in a plain gray riding- 
habit, mounted on a handsome mare, cantering up with a 
well-dressed, bluff -looking middle-aged man by her side. 
He, too, was well mounted, and as Julia checked her mare 
to walk by Sir Gordon’s cottage, he also drew rein and 
watched her closely. She bent forward, scanning the win- 
dows anxiously ; but seeing no one, for the occupants of the 
room were by the fire, they passed on, and Bayle turned 
to Sir Gordon with an angry look in his eyes. 

“Oh, no! Impossible!” he exclaimed. 

“There’s nothing impossible out here in this horrible 
penal place,” cried Sir Gordon, in a voice full of agitation. 

“No,” said Bayle, whose face cleared, and he smiled; 
“it is not even impossible that my old friend will go on 
enjoying his cruises about these glorious shores, and that 
the mutiny Shall I call in Tom Porter?” 

“Well, yes; I suppose you must,” said Sir Gordon, with 
a grim smile. 

Bayle went to the door, and Tom Porter answered the 
call with an “Ay, ay, sir,” and came padding over the 
floor with his bare feet like a man- o’ -war’s- man on a holy- 
stoned deck. 

“Sir Gordon wants to speak to you. Porter, ” said Bayle, 
making as if to go. 

“ No, no, Bayle! don’t go and leave me with this scoun- 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


287 


drelly mutineer. He’ll murder me. There, Tom Porter,” 
he continued, “I’m an irritable old fool, and I’m very 
sorry, and I beg your pardon ; but you ought to know bet- 
ter than to take offense.” 

Tom Porter, for answer, trotted out of the room, to re- 
turn at the end of a few moments with another basin of 
soup and two slices of toast already made. 


CHAPTER II. 

MRS. HALLAM’S servant. 

Millicent Hallam had found that all her husband had 
said was correct. There was no difficulty at all in the 
matter, and few questions were asked, for the government 
was only too glad to get convicts drafted off as assigned 
servants to all who applied, and so long as no complaints 
were made of their behavior, the prisoners to whom tickets 
were given were free of the colony. 

In many cases they led the lives of slaves to the settlers, 
and found that they had exchanged the rod for the scor- 
pion ; but they bore all for the sake of the compiirative 
freedom, and even preferred life at some up-country sta- 
tion, where a slight offense was punished with the lash, 
to returning to the chain-gang and the prison, or the heavy 
work of making roads. 

The cat was the cure for all ills in those days, v/hen al- 
most any one was appointed magistrate of his district. 

A. , the holder of so many assigned men, would be a justice, 
and one of his men would offend. In that case he would 
send him over to B. , the magistrate of the next district. 

B. would also be a squatter and holder of assigned convict 
servants. There would be a short examination; A.’s man 
would be well flogged and sent back. In due time B. 
would require the same service performed, and would send 
an offender over to A., to have him punished in turn. 

In the growing town, assigned servants were employed 
in a variety of ways ; and it was common enough for rel- 
atives of the convicts to apply and have husband, son, nr 
brother assigned to them, the ticket- of-leave man finding 
no difficulty there on account of being a jail-bird, where 
many of the most prosperous traders and squatters had 
once worn the prison garb. 

Robert Hallam was soon released, and at the end of a 
couple of months Stephen Crellock followed, the pair 
becoming ostensibly butler and coachman to a wealthy 
lady who had settled in Sydney— but servants only in the 
government books; for, unquestioned, Hallam at once took 
up his position as master of the house, and, to his wife’s 
horror, Crellock, directly he was released, came and took 


288 THIS. MAN'S WIFE, 

possession of the room set apart for him as Hallam’s oldest 
friend. 

A strange state of society, perhaps, but it is a mere mat- 
ter of history ; such proceedings were frequent in the days 
when Botany Bay was the depot for the social sinners of 
our land. 

All the same, though, poor Botany Bay, with its abundant 
specimens of Austral growth that delighted the naturalists 
of the early expedition, never did become a penal settle- 
ment. It was selected, and the first convict ship went 
there to form the great prison, but the place was unsuit- 
able, and Port Jackson, the site of Sydney, proved so 
vastly superior that the expedition went on there at once. 

At home in England, though. Botany Bay was spoken of 
always as the convicts’ home, and the term embraced the 
whole of the penal settlements, including Norfolk Island, 
that horror of our laws, and Van Diemen’s Land. 

Opportunity had served just after Hallam was released, 
and had taken up his residence in simple lodgings which 
Mrs. Hallam, with Bayle’s help, had secured, for one of the 
best villas that had been built in the place — a handsome 
wooden bungalow, with broad verandas and lovely gar- 
den sloping down toward the bay — was to let. 

Millicent Hallam had looked at her husband in alarm 
when he bade her take it; but he placed the money laugh- 
ingly in her hands for furnishing; and, obeying him as if 
in a dream, the house was taken and handsomely fitted. 
Servants were engaged, horses bought, and Hallam com- 
menced a life of luxurious ease. 

The sealing business, he said, with a laugh, was only 
carried on at certain times of the year, but it was a most 
paying affair, and he bade Mi«. Hallam have no care about 
money-matters. 

For the first six months, Hallam rarely stirred out of the 
house by day, contenting himself with a walk about the 
extensive grounds in an evening; but he made up for this 
abstinence from society by pampering his appetities in 
every way. 

It was as if, these having been kept in strict subjection 
all these years, he was now determined to give them full 
rein; and, consequently, he who had been summoned at 
early morn by the prison bell breakfasted luxuriously in 
bed, and did not rise till mid-day, when his first question 
was about the preparation for dinner— that being the im- 
portant business of his day. 

His dinner was a feast at which good wine in suflicient 
abundance played a part, and over this he and Crellock 
would sit for hours, only to leave it and the dining-room 


THIS MAN^S WIFH. 289 

for spirits and cigars in the veranda, where they stayed 
till bedtime. 

Robert Hallam came into the house a pallid, wasted man, 
with sunken cheeks and eyes, closely cropped hair and 
shorn beard. The villainous prison look was in his gaze, 
and the furtive shrinking way in his stoop. His aspect 
was so horrible, that when Millicent Hallam took him to 
her breast, she prayed for mental blindness that she might 
not see the change, while Julia’s eyes were always full of 
a wondering horror that she was ever fighting to suppress. 

At the end of four months, Robert Hallam was com- 
pletely transformed ; his cheeks were filled out and were 
rapidly assuming the flushed appearance of the habitual 
drunkard’s; his eyes had lost their cavernous aspect, and 
half the lines had disappeared, while his grizzled hair was 
of a respectable length, and his face was becoming clothed 
by a great black beard dashed with gray. 

In six months, portly, florid, and well dressed, he was 
unrecognizable for the man who had been released from 
the great prison, and no longer confined himself to the 
house. 

Stephen Crellock had changed in a more marked manner 
than his prison friend. Considerably his junior, the con- 
vict life had not seemed to affect him, so that when six 
months of his freedom had passed, he looked the bluff, 
bearded squatter in the full pride of his manhood, bronzed 
by the sun, and with a dash and freedom of manner that 
he knew how to restrain when he was in the presence of 
his old companion’s wife and child, for he could not con- 
ceal from himself the fact that Mrs. Hallam disliked his 
presence and resented his being there. 

At first, in her eagerness to respond to Hallam’s slight- 
est wish, in the proud joy she felt in the change that was 
coming over his personal appearance, and which, with the 
boastfulness of a young wife, she pointed out to Julia, she 
made no objection to Crellock’s presence. 

“Poor fellow! he has suffered horribly,” Hallam said. 
“ He deserves a holiday.” 

How she had watched all this gradual change, and how 
she crushed down the little voices that now and then 
strove in her heart to make themselves heard ! 

“ No, no, no,” she said to them, as it were half -laughing, 
“ there is nothing but what I ought to have pictured.” 

Then, one day she found herself forced to make an apol- 
ogy to Julia. 

“You have hurt him, my darling, by your coldness,” 
she said, tenderly. “ Julie, my own, he complains to me. 
What have you done?” 


^90 TBIS MAN^S WIPB. 

“ Tried, dear mother— oh, so hard. I did not know 1 had 
been cold.” 

” Then you will try more, my child,” said Mrs. Hallam, 
caressing Julia tenderly, and with a bright, loving look in 
her eyes. “I have never spoken like this before. It 
seemed terrible to me to have to make what seems like an 
apology for our own, but think, dearest. He parted from 
us a gentleman — to be taken from his home and plunged 
into a life of horror, such as— no, no, no,” she cried, “ I 
will not speak of it. I will only say that just as his face 
will change, so will all that terrible corrosion of the prison 
life in his manner drop away, and in a few months he will 
be again all that you have pictured. Julie, he is your 
father.” 

Julia flung herself, sobbing passionately, into her • 
mother’s arms, and in a burst of self-reproach vowed that 
she would do everything to make her father love her as 
she did him. 

Bravely did the two women set themselves to the task of 
blinding their eyes with love, passing over the coarse 
actions and speech of the idol they had set up, yielding 
eagerly to his slightest whim, obeying every caprice, and, 
while at times something was almost too hard to bear, Mil- 
licent Hallam whispered encouragement to her child. 

” Think, my own, think,” she said, lovingly. “It is not 
his fault. Think of what he has suffered, and let us pray 
and thank Him that he has survived, for us to win back 
to all that we could wish.” 

There were times when despair looked blankly from Mil- 
licent Hallam’s eyes, as she saw the months glide by and 
her husband surely and slowly sinking into sensuality. 
But she roused herself to greater exertions, and was his 
veriest slave. Once only did she try by kindly resistance 
to make the stand she told herself she should have made 
when Crellock was first brought into the house. 

It was when he had been out about six months, and 
Crellock, after a long debauch with Hallam and two or 
three chosen spirits from the town, had sunk in a brutal 
sleep upon the floor of the handsomely furnished dining- 
room. The visitors had gone ; they had dined there. Sir 
Gordon being of the party, and Mrs. Hallam had smilingly 
done the honors of the table as their hostess, though sick 
at heart at the turn the conversation had taken before her 
child, who looked anxious and pale, while Sir Gordon had 
sat there very silent and grim of aspect. He had been tlie 
first to go, and had taken her hand in the drawing-room, 
as if about to speak, but had only looked at her, sighed, 
and gone away without a word. 


TBlS MAN'S WIFE. 


“ 1 must speak, ” she had said. “Heaven help me! I 
must speak! This cannot go on.” 

As soon as she could she had hurried Julia to bed, and 
then sat and waited till the last visitor had gone, when she 
walked into the dining room where Hallam sat smoking, 
heavy with drink, but perfectly collected, scowling down 
at Crellock where he lay. 

That look sent a thrill of joy through Millicent Hallam. 
He was evidently angry wuth Crellock. and disgusted with 
tlie wretched drinking scene that had taken place— one of 
many such scenes as wo aid have excited comment now, but 
the early settlers were ready enough to smile at such ec- 
centricities as this. 

“ Robert — my husband! may I speak to you?” 

“Speak, my dear? Of course,” he said, smiling. “Why 
didn’t you come in as soon as that old curmudgeon had 
gone? Have a glass of wine now. Nonsense— I wish it! 
You must pitch over a lot of that standoffishness with my 
friends. Julia, too— the girl sits and looks at people as 
glum as if she had no sense.” 

Mrs. Hallam compressed her lips, laid her hand upon 
her husband’s shoulder, yielding herself to him as he 
threw an arm round her waist, but stood pointing to where 
Crellock lay breathing stertorously, and every now and 
then muttering in his sleep. 

“What are you pointing at?” said Hallam. “Steve? 
Yes, the pig! Why can’t he take his wine like a gentle- 
man and not like a brute?” 

“Robert, dear,” she said, tenderly, “you love me very 
dearly?” 

“Love you, my pet? why, how could a man love wife 
better?” 

“And our Julia — our child?” 

“ Why, of course. What questions!” 

“Will you do something to please me— to please us 
both?” 

“Will I? Say what you want— another carriage— dia- 
monds — a yacht like old Bourne’s?” 

“No. no, no, dearest; we have everything if we have 
your love, and my dear husband glides from the past 
misery into a life of happiness.” 

“Well, I think we are doing pretty well,” he said, with 
a laugh that sent a shudder through the suffering woman ; 
he was so changed. 

“ I want to speak to you about Mr. Crellock.” 

“Well, what about him? Make haste; it’s getting late, 
and I’m tired.” 

‘ ‘ Robert, we have made a mistake in having this man 
here.” 


203 


TBIS 3IaN^S WIFB. 


Hallam seemed perfectly sober and he frowned. 

“/ would not mind if you wished him to be here, love,’’ 
she said, with her voice sounding sweetly pure and en- 
treating; “but he is not a suitable companion for our 
Julia.” 

“Stop there,” said Hallam, sharply. 

“No, no, darling; let me speak— this time,” said Mrs. 
Hallam, entreatingly. “ I know it was out of the genuine 
goodness and pity of your heart that you opened your 
door to him. Now you have done all you need, let him 
go.” 

Hallam shook his head. 

“ Think of the past, and the terrible troubles he brought 
upon you.” 

“ Oh, no! that was all a mistake,” said Hallam, quickly. 
“Poor brute! he was as ill-treated as I was, and now you 
want him kicked out.” 

“No, no, dear; part from him kindly, but he was the 
cause of much of your suffering.” 

“No, he was not,” said Hallam, quickly. “That w^as 
all a mistake. Poor Steve was always a good friend to 
me. He suffered along with me in that cursed hole, and 
he shall have his share of the comfort now.” 

“ No, no, do not say you wish him to stay.” 

“But I do say it,” cred Hallam, angrily. “He is my 
best friend, and he will stay. Hang it, woman, am I to be 
cursed with the presence of jmur friends who sent me out 
here and not have the company of my own?” 

“ Eobert!— husband!— don’t speak to me like that.” 

“ But I do speak to you like that. Here is that wretched 
old yachtsman forcing his company upon me day after 
day, insisting upon coming to the house, and reminding 
me by his presence who I am and what I have been.” 

“Darling, Sir Gordon ignores the past, and is grieved, I 
know, at tlie terrible mistake that brought you here. He 
wishes to show you this by his kindness to us all.” 

“Let him keep his kindness till it is asked for,” growled 
Hallam. “ He sits upon me like a nightmare. I don’t feel 
that the place is my own when he is here. As for Bayle, 
he has had the good sense to stay away lately.” 

Mrs. Hallam’s eyes were full of despair as she listened. 

“I hate Sir Gordon coming here. He and Bayle have 
between them made that girl despise me, and look down 
upon me every time we speak, while I am lavishing monej’’ 
upon her, and she has horses and carriage, jewels and 
dress equal to any girl in the colony.” 

“Robert, dear, you are not saying all this from your 
heart.” 

‘ Indeed, but I am,” he cried, angrily. 


THIS MAN'S WIFE, 


293 


“No, no! And Julie— she loves you dearly. It is for 
her sake I ask this,” and she pointed to Crellock where 
he lay. 

“lit sleeping dogs lie,” said Hallam, with a meaning 
laugh. “ Poor Steve! I don’t like him, but he has been a 
faithful mate to me, and I’m not going to turn round upon 
him now.” 

‘ ‘ But for Julie’s sake !” 

“ I’m thinking about Julie, my dear,” he said, nodding 
his head; “and as for Steve— there, just you make your- 
self comfortable about him. There’s no harm in him ; he 
is faithful as a dog to me, and if I behaved badly he might 
bite.” 

“ You need not be unkind to Mr. Crellock if he has been 
what you say. I only ask you for our child’s sake to let 
him leave here.” 

“ Impossible; he is my partner.” 

“Yes, you intimated that. In your business.” 

“ Speculations,” said Hallam, quietly. “ There, that will 
do.” 

“But, Robert ” 

“ That will do!” he roared fiercely. “Stephen Crellock 
must live here ! Do you hediv—must ! Now go to bed. ’ ’ 

“ A woman’s duty,” she whispered, softly, “ is to obey,” 
and she obeyed. 

She obeyed, while another six months glided away, each 
month filling her heart more and more with despair, as 
she shunned her child’s questioning eyes, and fought on, a 
harder battle every day, to keep herself in the belief that 
the pure gold was still beneath that blackening tarnish, 
and that her idol was not made of clay. 

It was a terrible battle, for her eyes refused to be blinded 
longer by the loving veil she cast over them. The appeal- 
ing, half-wondering looks of her child increased her suffer- 
ing, v/hile an idea, that filled her with horror, was growing 
day by day, till it was assuming proportions from which 
she shrunk in dread. 


CHAPTER HI. 

OUR JULIA’S LOVER. 

“What have we done, wifie, that we should be con- 
signed to such quarters as these?” said Captain Otway one 
day, with a sigh. “I don’t think I’m too particular, but 
when I entered his majesty’s service I did not know that I 
should be expected to play jailer to the occupants of the 
government pandemonium.” 

“It is a beautiful place,” said Mrs. Otway, laconically. 

“ It was till we came and spoiled it. It is one great hor- 


294 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


ror, ’pon my word; and it is degrading onr men to set 
them such duty as this.” 

“Be patient. These troubles cure themselves.” 

“ But they take such a long time over it,” said the cap- 
tain. “ It would be more bearable if Phil had not turned 
goose.” 

“ Poor Phil!” said Mrs. Otway, with a sigh. 

“ Poor Phil? Pooh! you spoil the lad ! I can’t get him 
out for a bit of shooting or hunting or fishing. Old Sir 
Gordon would often give us a cruise in his boat — but no, 
Phil must sit moon-struck here. The fellow’s spoiled! 
Can’t you knock all that on the head?” 

I perhaps could, but it must be a matter of time,” said 
Mrs. Otway, going steadily on with her work, and mend- 
ing certain articles of attire. 

“ But he must be cured. It is impossible.” 

“Yes,” sighed Mrs. Otway, “ so I tell him. I wish it 
were not.” 

“ My dear Mary— a convict’s daughter !” 

“The poor girl was not consulted as to whose daughter 
she would like to be, Jack, and she is, without exception, 
the sweetest lassie I ever met.” 

“Yes, she is nice,” said Otway. “Mother must have 
been nice too.” 

“Is nice,” cried Mrs. Otway, flushing. “I felt a little 
distant with her at first, but after what I have seen and 
know— by George, Jack, I do feel proud of our sex!” 

“Humph!” ejaculated the captain, with a smile at his 
wife’s bluff earnestness. “ Yes, she’s a good woman; very 
ladylike too. But that husband, that friend of his, Crel- 
lock! Poor creatures ! it is ruining them.” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Otway, dryly. “That’s one of the 
misfortunes of marriage; we poor women are dragged 
down to the level of our husbands.” 

“And when these husbands come out to convict settle- 
ments as jailers they have to come with them, put up with 
all kinds of society, give up all their refinements, and 
make and mend their own dresses, and ” 

“ Even do their own chores, as the Americans call it,” 
said Mrs. Otway, looking up smiling. “ It makes me look 
very miserable, doesn’t it. Jack?” 

She stopped her work, went behind her husband’s chair, 
put her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek upon his 
head. 

Neither spoke for a few minutes, but the captain looked 
very contented and happy, and neither of them heard the 
step as Bayle came through the house, and out suddenly 
into the veranda. 

“ I beg your pardon!” he cried, drawing bcick. 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE, 


295 


’‘Ah, parson! Don’t go!” cried the captain, as Mrs. 
Otway started up, and in spite of her ordinary aplomb, 
looked disturbed. “ Bad habit of ours acquired since mar- 
riage. We don’t mind you.” 

Mrs. Otvyay held out her hand to their visitor. 

Why. it is nearly a fortnight since you have been to 
see us. We were just talking about your friends— the 
Hallams.” 

” Have you been to see them lately?” said Bayle, 
eagerly. 

“I was there yesterday. Quite well; but Mrs. Hallam 
looks worried and ill. Julia is charming, only she too is 
not as I should like to see her.” 

She watched Bayle keenly, and saw his countenance 
change as she spoke. 

“ I am very glad they are well,” he said. 

“Yes, I know you are; but why don’t you go more 
often?” 

He looked at her rather wistfully, and made no reply. 

“ Look here, Mr. Bayle,” she said, “I don’t think you 
mind my speaking plainly, now do you? Come, that’s 
frank.” 

I will be just as frank,” he replied, smiling. “ I have 
always liked j^ou because you do speak so plainly.” 

“That’s kind of you to say so,” she replied. “Well, I 
will speak out. You see, there are so few women in the 
colony.” 

“Who are ladies,” said Bayle, quietly. 

“ Look here,” said Otway, in a much ill-used tone, “ am 
I expected to sit here and listen to my wife putting herself 
under the influence of the Church?” 

“ Don’t talk nonsense. Jack!” said Mrs. Otway, sharply. 
“ This is serious.” 

“I’m dumb.” 

“What I want to say, Mr. Bayle, ^s this: Don’t you 
think you are making a mistake in staying away from 
your friends yonder?” 

He sat without replying for some minutes. 

- “No,” he said, slowly. “I did not give up my visits 
there till after I had weighed the matter very carefully.” 

“ But you seemed to come out with those two ladies as 
their guardian, and now when they seem most to require 
your help and guidance you leave them.” 

“ Have you heard anything? Is anything wrong?” 

“ I have heard nothing, but I have seen a great deal, 
because I persist in visiting, in spite of Mr. Hallam’ s ob- 
jection to my presence.” 

“I say, my dear, that man is always civil to you, I 
hope?” cried Otway, sharply, 


296 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ My dear Jack, be quiet,” said Mrs. Otway. “ Of course 
he is. I visit there bexiause I have good reasons for so 
doing.” 

‘‘Tell me,” said Bayle, anxiously. 

“ I have seen a great deal,” continued Mrs. Otway; “but 
it all comes to one point.” Bayle looked at her inquir- 
ingly. “ That it is very dreadful for those two sweet, deli- 
cate women to have come out here to such a fate. The man 
is dreadful!” 

“They will redeem him,” said Bayle, huskily. “Poor 
wretch! he has had a terrible experience. This convict life 
is worse than capital punishment. We must be patient, 
Mrs. Otway. The habits of a number of years are not got 
rid of in a few months. He will change.” 

“Will he?” said Mrs. Otway, shortly. 

“ Yes; they will, as I said before, redeem him. The man 
has great natural love for his wife and child.” 

“ Do you think this?” 

“Yes, yes!” he said, excitedly, as he ^ot up and began 
to pace the veranda. ‘ ‘ I stop away because my presence 
was like a standing reproach to him. The abstinence gives 
me intense pain, but my going tended to make them un- 
happy, and caused constraint, so I stop away. ’ ’ 

“And so you think that they will raise him to their stand- 
ard, do you?” said Mrs. Otway, dryly. 

“ Yes, I do,” he cried, fervently. “ It is only a matter 
of time.” 

“ How can you be so self- deceiving?” she cried, quickly. 
“ He is dragging them down to his level.” 

“Oh, hush!” cried Bayle, passionately. Then mastering 
his emotion, he continued, in his old, firm, 'quiet way, 
“No, no; you must not say that. He could not. It is im- 
possible.” 

“Yes. You are wrong there. Bell,” said the captain. 
“ Mrs. Hallam is made of too good stuff.” 

“ I give in,” said Mrs. Ot\yay, nodding. “ Yes, you two 
are right. He could not bring that sweet woman down to 
his level; but all this is very terrible. The man is giving 
himself up to a life of sensuality. Drinking and feasting 
with that companion of his. There is gambling going on 
too, at night with friends of his own stamp. What a life 
this is for that refined lady and her child !’ ’ 

Bayle spoke calmly, but he wiped the great drops of 
sweat from his brow. 

What can I do?” he said. “lam perfectly helpless ” 

“I confess I don’t know,” said Mrs. Otway, with a sigh 
“ Only you and Sir Gordon must be at hand to help them 
in any emergency . ” ^ 

“ Emergency ! What do you mean,*” anxiously, 


THIS 3fAN^S WIFE. 


20 ' 


“1 don’t know what may occur. Who knows? Women 
are so weak,” sighed Mrs. Otway; “once they give their 
faith to a man, they follow him to the end of the world.” 

“ That’s true, Bayle, old fellow— to convict stations, and 
become slaves, ” said the captain. 

“ Mr. Bayle,” said Mrs. Otway, suddenly, “ I am under 
a promise to my old friend. Lady Eaton, and I have done 
my best to oppose it all; but you have seen how deeply 
attached Phil Eaton has become to Miss Hallam?” 

“Yes,” said Bayle, slowly, and he was very pale now, 
“ I have seen it.” 

“ He shall not marry her if I can prevent it, much as I 
love the girl, for it would be a terrible mesalliance; but he 
is desperately fond of her, and as my husband here says, 
he has taken the bit in his teeth, and he probably will 
travel his own way.” 

“Don’t you get fathering your coarse words on me,” 
grumbled the captain ; but no one heeded him. 

“As I say, he shall not marry her if I can stop it; but 
suppose he should be determined and could get the father’s 
consent, would you and Sir Gordon raise any opposition?” 

“ Lieutenant Eaton is an officer and a gentleman.” 

“He is a very true-hearted lad. Mr. Bayle, and T love 
him dearly,” said Mrs. Otway. “ Only that he is fighting 
hard between love and duty, he would have been carrying 
on the campaign by now ; but you must allow Fort Robert 
Hallam is a terrible one to storm and garrison afterward, 
for it has to be retained for life.” 

“I understand your meaning,” said Bayle, speaking 
very slowly. “It is a terrible position for Mr. Eaton to 
be in.” 

“ Should you oppose it?” 

“I have no authority whatever,” said Bayle, in the 
same low, dreamy tone. “ If I had, I should never dream 
of opposing anything that was for Miss Hallam’s good.” 

“And it would be to get her away from such associa- 
tions, Mr. Bayle.” 

“Lady Eaton! Lady Eaton!” said the captain, in warn- 
ing tones. 

“Hush, Jack! pray.” 

“Yes,” said Bayle; “it would be for Miss Hallam’s 
benefit; but it would nearly break her mother’s heart.” 

“ She would have to make a sacrifice for the sake of the 
child.” 

“Yes.” said Bayle, softly. “Another sacrifice;” and 
then soBly to himself, “ How long-how long?” 

He rose, and was gravely bidding his friends good-bye, 
when a sharp, quick step was heard, and Eaton came in, 


298 THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

colored like a girl on seeing Bayle, hesitated, and then 
held out his hand. 

Bayle shook it warmly and left the veranda, Eaton 
walking with him to the gate. 

“Jack,” said Mrs. Otway, softly, “it’s my belief that 
the parson loves Julia Hallam himself.” 

“You think so?” 

“ I’m sure of it.” 

“And will he marry her?” 

“No. I‘m about sure that she is desperately fond of our 
boy, and the parson is too true a man to stand in the 
way.” 

“Nonsense!” said the captain. “Such men are not 
made now.” 

“But they were when Christie Bayle was born,” she 
said, nodding her head quickly. “Yes,” she said, after a 
pause, as they heard Eaton’s returning steps, it’s a knot, 
J ack. ’ ’ 

“ Humph 1” he replied. “ For time to untie.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

STEPHEN CRELLOCK IS COMMUNICATIVE. 

“ No hurry, Steve, my lad,” said Hallam, as he turned 
over the newspaper that had come in by the last mail, and 
threw one of his booted legs over a chair. 

Crellock was leaning against the chimney-piece of the 
room Hallam called his study; but one which, in place 
of books, was filled with fishing and shooting gear, 
saddles, bridles, and hunting-whips, from that usually 
adopted for riding, to the heavy implement so terrible in a 
stockman’s hands. 

The man had completely lost all his old prison look; and 
the obedient, servile manner that distinguished him when, 
years before, he had been Hallam’s willing tool in iniquity, 
bad gone. He had developed into a sturdy, independent, 
i-estless man, with whom it would be dangerous to trifle, 
and Robert Hallam had felt for some time that he really 
was master no longer. 

Crellock had dressed himself evidently for a ride. He 
was booted and spurred; wore tightly fitting breeches and 
jacket, and a bioad brimmed felt hat was t,hrust back on 
his curly hair, as he stood beating his boot with his riding- 
whip. and tucking bits of his crisp beard between his 
white teeth to bite. 

“ What do you say! No hurry?” 

“Yes,” said Hallam, rustling his paper. “No hurry, 
my lad: plenty of time.” 

“You think so, do you?” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


299 


“To be sure. There, go and have your ride. I’ve got 
some fresh champagne just come in by the Cross. We’ll 
try that to-day. ’ ’ 

“Hang your champagne ! I’ve come to talk business,’’ 
said Crellock, sternly. “ You think there’s no hurry, do 
you? W^ell, look here, I think there is, and I’m not going 
to wait.” 

“ Nonsense! Don’t talk like a boy.” 

“No; I’ll talk like a man, Robert Hallam. A man 
don’t improve by keeping. I shall do now; by and by 
perhaps I sha’n’t. I’m double her age and more.” 

“ Oh yes, I know all about that,” said Hallam, impa- 
tiently; “ but there’s plenty of time.” 

“ I say there is not, and I’m going to have it settled. 
Your wife hates me. I’m not blind; and she’ll set Julie 
against me all she can.” 

“I’m master here.” 

“ Then show it. Bob Hallam, and quickly", before there’s 
a row. I tell you it wants doing; she’s easily led now she’s 
so young, but I tell you I’m not blind.” 

” You said that before, what do you mean?” 

“That soldier Eaton, he’s hankering after her, and if 
we don’t mind, she’ll listen to him. It’s only your being 
an old hand that keeps him back from asking for her.” 

” Well, well, let it go and I’ll see about it by and by,” 
said Hallam. “ Have patience.” 

“A man at my time of life can’t have patience. Bob. 
Now come, you know I want the girl, and it will be like 
tying us more tightly together.” 

“ And put a stop to the risk of your telling tales,” said 
Hallam bitterly.” 

“ I’m not the man to tell tales,” said Crellock, sturdily, 
“ neither am I the man for you to make an enemy.” 

” Threatening?” 

“ No, but I’m sure you wouldn’t care to go back to the 
gang and on the road, Robert Hallam. Such a good man 
as your wife and child think you are!” 

•‘Hold your tongue, will you?” cried Hallam, savagely. 

“When I please,” replied Crellock. “Oh! come, yon 
needn’t look so fierce, old chap, I used to think what a 
wonder you were, and wish I could be as cool and clever, 
and ” 

“Well?” for the other stopped. 

“ Oh! nothing; only I don’t think so now.” 

“ Look here,” said Hallam, throwing aside the paper im- 
patiently, “ what do you want?” 

“Julia.” 

“ You mean you want to try if she’ll listen to you.” 


800 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


“ No, I don’t. I mean I want her, and I mean to have 
her, and half share.” 

“And if I say it is impossible?” 

“ But you won’t,” said Crellock, coolly.” 

Hallam sat back frowning and biting his nails, while the 
other slowly beat his boot with his whip. 

At last Hallam’ s brow cleared, and he said, in a quiet, 
easy way: 

“She might do better, Steve, but I won’t stand in your 
way. Only the thing must come about gently. Talk to 
the girl. You shall have chances. I don’t want any 
scenes with her or her mother, or any flying to that old 
man or the parson to help her. It must be worked qui- 
etly.” 

“ All right. Order the horses round, and let her go for 
a ride with me this morning.” 

Mrs. Hallam was ready to object, but she gave way, and 
Julia went for a ride with Crellock, passing Sir Gordon’s 
cottage, and then riding right away into the open country. 
The girl had developed into a splendid horsewoman, and 
at last, when she had forgotten her dislike for her compan- 
ion in the excitement and pleasure of the exercise, and the 
horses were well breathed and walking up an ascent, Crel- 
lock, on the principle that he had no time to spare, tried to 
forward his position. 

“I say, Miss Julia,” he said, taking off his broad hat, 
and fanning his face, as they rode on in the bright sun- 
shine, “ do you remember when you first came over?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“And meeting me as I was carried out of the prison on 
the stretcher?” 

J Lilia looked at him, her eyes dilating with horror as the 
whole scene came back.” 

“Don’t,” she said hoarsely; “it is too horrible to think 
of; such cruelty is dreadful.” 

“I don’t consider it too horrible to think of,” he said, 
smiling. “I’m always looking back on that day and see- 
ing it all, every bit. That poor wretch shrieking out with 
pain.” 

“ Mr Crellock!” cried Julia. 

“Yes! Me. Not hardly able to move himself, or bear 
his pain, and half mad with thirst.” 

“Oh, pray, hush!” 

“Not I, my dear,” continued Crellock; “and out of it 
all I can see coming through the sunshine a bright angel 
to hold water up to my lips, and wipe the sweat of agony 
off my brow. ’ ’ 

“ Mr. Crellock ! I cannot bear to listen to all this.” 

“But you could bear to look at it all, and do it, bless 


THtS STAN'S WIFE, 80l 

you!” said the man, warmly. “That day I swore some 
thing, and I’m going to keep my oath.” 

“ Don’t talk about it any more, please,” said Julia, im- 
ploringly. 

“If you don’t wish me to, I won’t,” said Crellock, smil- 
ing. “ I do want to talk to you, though, about a lot of 
things, and one is about the drink.” 

J alia looked at him wonderingly. 

“Yes, about the drink,” continued Crellock, “the old 
man drinks too much.” 

Julia’s face contracted. 

“ And I’ve been a regular brute lately, my dear. You 
see, it has been such a temptation after being kept from it 
for years. I haven’t been able to stop myself. It isn’t 
nice for a young girl like you to see a man drunk, is it?” 

Julia shook her head. 

“Then I sha’n’t never get drunk again. I’ll only take 
a little.” 

“Oh! I am so glad,” cried Julia, with girlish eagerness. 

“Are you?” he said, smiling, “then so am 1. That’s 
settled, then. I want to be as decent as I can. You 
see, you’re such a good, religious girl, Miss Julia, while I’m 
such a bad one.” 

“But you could be better.” 

“Could I? I don’t like being a hypocrite. I’m not 
ashamed to own that I was a bad one, and got into all that 
trouble in the old country.” 

“Oh! hush, please. You did wrong, and were punished 
for it. Now all that is past and forgiven.” 

“I always said you were an angel,” said Crellock, ear 
nestly, “and you are.” 

“ Nonsense! Let us talk of something else.” 

“No, let’s talk about that. I want to stand fair and 
square with you, and I don’t want you to think me a hum- 
bug and a hypocrite.” 

“Mr. Crellock, I never thought so well of you before,” 
said Julia, warmly. “Your promise of amendment has 
made me feel so happy.” 

“Has it?” he cried, eagerly, but with a rough kind of 
respect mingled with his admiration. “So it has me. I 
mean it, that I do You shall never see me the worse for 
drink again.” 

“ And will you attend more to the business then?” 

“ What business?” he said. 

“ The business that you and my father carry on.” 

“ The business that I and your father carry on?” 

“ Yes; the speculations about the seals and the oil.” 

Crellock stared at her. “Why, what have you got in 
your pretty little head?” he said at last. 


802 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ I only alluded to the business in which you and my 
father are partners.” 

“Pooh!” cried Crellock, with a sort of laugh. “ What 
nonsense it is of him! Why, niy dear, you are not a child 
now. After all the trouble you and your mother went 
through. You are a clever, thoughtful little woman, and 
he ought to have taken you into his confidence. ’ ’ 

“ What do you mean?” cried Julia, for she felt dazed. 

“Your father! What’s the use of a man like him — an 
old hand— setting himself up as a saint, and playing inno- 
cent? It isn’t my way. As you say, when one has done 
wrong and suffered punishment, and is whitewashed ” 

“Mr. Crellock,” said Julia, flushing, “I cannot misun- 
derstand your allusions; but if you dare to insinuate that 
my poor father was guilty of any wrong-doing before he 
suffered, it is disgraceful, and it is not true.” 

Crellock looked at her admiringly. 

“ Bless you !” he said, warmly. “ I didn’t think you had 
so much spirit in you. Now be calm, my dear; there’s 
nothing worse than being a sham, a hypocrite. I never 
was. I always owned up to what I had done. Your father 
never did.” 

“ My father never did anything wrong!” cried Julia. 

Crellock smiled. 

“ Come, I should like us to begin by being well in each 
other’s confidence,” he said, as he leaned over and patted 
the arching neck of Julia’s mare. “You must know it, so 
what’s the use of making a pretense about it to me?” 

“ I do not understand you,” said Julia, indignantly. 

“ Not understand me? Why, my dear girl, you know 
your father was transported for life?” 

“ Do I know it?” cried Julia, with an indignant flash of 
her eyes. 

“ Yes, of course you do. Well, what was it for?” 

“Because appearances were cruelly against him,” cried 
Julia. 

“ They were,” said Crellock, dryly. 

“Because his friends doubted him, consequent upon the 
conduct of a man he trusted,” said Julia, bitterly. 

“I never knew your father trust any one. Miss Julia, and 
I knew him before he went to King’s Castor. We were 
clerks in the same office.” 

“ He trusted you,” cried Julia, indignantly; “and you 
deceived him, and he suffered for your wicked sin.” 

She struck the mare with her whip, and it would have 
dashed off, but Crellock was smoothing her mane above the 
reins, and as they tightened they came into his hand, and 
he checked the little animal, which began to rear. 


Tim MAN^S WIFE. 


B03 


“Quiet! quiet!” cried Crellock, fiercely; and he held 
the mare back with ears twitching and nostril quivering. 

“ Let my rein go,” cried Julia. 

“Wait a bit; I’ve a lot to say to you yet, my dear,” 
cried Crellock, indignantly. “Look here. Did your father 
say that?” 

“ Yes, and you know it is true.” 

“ I say again, did your father say that to your mother?” 

“ Yes,” indignantly. 

“ Then that’s why she has always shown me such a stiff 
upper lip, and been so deadly against me. I wouldn’t have 
stopped in her house a day, she was so hard on me, only I 
wanted to be near you, and to think about that day coming 
out of the prison. Well, of all the mean, cowardly things 
for a man to do!” 

“ My father is no coward. You dare not speak to him 
like that. ” 

“I dare say a deal more to him, and I will if he runs me 
down before you and your mother, when I wanted to show 
you I wasn’t such a bad one after all. It’s mean,” he 
cried, working himself up. “It’s cowardly. But it’s just 
like him. When that robbery took place before, he escaped 
and I took the blame.” 

“Loose my rein,” cried Julia. “ Man, you are mad.” 

“ See here, ” said Crellock, catching her arm, and looking 
white with rage. “I’ll take my part; hut I’m not going 
to have the credit of the Dixon’s business put on to my 
shoulders. I’m not a h3:pocrite. Miss Julia. I’ve done 
wrong, as I said before, and was punished. There, it’s of 
no use for you to struggle. I mean you to hear. I want 
to stand well with you. I always did after you gave me 
that drink of water, and now I find I’ve been made out to 
be a regular bad one, so as some one else may get off.” 

“Will you loose my rein?” cried Julia. 

“No, I won't. Now, are you going to call out for 
help?” 

“No,” cried Julia. “I’m not such a coward as to be 
afraid of j^ou.” 

“ That you are not,” he said, admiringly, in spite of the 
passion he was in. “Now, once more tell me this. I’ll be 
lieve you. You never told a lie, and you never would. Is 
this a sham to back up your father?” 

She did not answer, only gave him a haughtily indignant 
look. 

“ Do you mean to tell me you don’t know that your fa 
ther did all that Dixon’s business himself?” 

“I know it is false.” 

“And that I only did what he told me, and planted the 
deeds at the different banks?” 


304 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


“It is false, I tell you.” 

“ You’re making me savage,” he cried, in his blundering 
way. “I tell you I’m not such a brute. Look here once 
more. Do you mean to tell me that you don’t know that 
we have all been living on what he— your father — got from 
Dixon’s bank?” 

“ How dare you!” cried Julia, scarlet with anger. 

“ And that you and your mother brought over the plun- 
der when you came?” 

For answer, Julia struck his hand with her whip, giving 
so keen a cut that he loosened his hold, and she went off 
like the wind toward home. 

“ What a fool I was to talk like that!” he cried, biting 
liis lips as he set spurs to his horse and galloped off in pur- 
suit. “ I’ve been talking like a madman. It all comes of 
being regularly in love.” 


CHAPTER V. 

“you are my wife.” 

Stephen Crellock was fifty yards behind, with his horse 
completely blown, when Julia quietly slipped from her sad- 
dle, threw the rein over the hook at the door-post, and ran 
up stairs to the room where her mother loved to sit gazing 
over the beauties of the cove-marked bay. 

Mrs. Hallam started up in alarm, and she had evidentl3^ 
been weeping. 

“What is it, my child?” she cried, as Julia threw her- 
self sobbing in her arms. 

“That man— that man!” cried Julia. 

“Has he dared to insult you?” cried Mrs. Hallam, with 
her eyes flashing, and her mother’s indignation giving her 
the mien of an outraged queen. 

“Yes— you— my father,” sobbed Julia; and in broken 
words she panted out the story of the ride. 

Mrs. Hallam had been indignant, and a strange shiver 
of horror had passed through her, as it seemed as she list- 
ened that she was going to hear in form of words the 
dread that had been growing in her mind for a long time 
past. 

It was then at first with a sense of relief that she gath- 
ered from her child’s incoherent statement that Crellock 
had uttered few words of love. When, however, she 
thoroughly realized what had passed, and the charge that 
Crellock had made, it came with such a shock in its pos- 
sibility that her brain reeled. 

“It is not true, ” she cried, recovering herself quickly. 
“Julia, it is as false as the man who made it.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 805 

“I knew— I knew it was, dear mother,” sobbed Julia. 
“My father shall drive him from the house.” 

“Stay here,” said Mrs. Hallam, sternly. Then, more 
gently, “ My child you are flushed and hot. There, there 1 
we have been so happy lately. We must not let a petty 
accusation like this disturb us.” 

“ So happy, mother,” cried Julia, piteously, “ when our 
friends forsake us; and Mr. Bayle is as good as forbidden 
the house?” 

“Hush, my darling!” said Mrs. Hallam, agitatedly. 
“ There, go to your room.” 

She hurried Julia away, for she heard the trampling of 
the horses’ feet as they were led round to the stables, and 
then a familiar step upon the stairs. 

“I was coming to speak to you,” she said, as Hallam 
opened the door. 

“ And I was coming to you,” he said, roughly. “ What 
has that little idiot bfeen saying to Crellock to put him in 
such a rage?” 

“ Sit down,” she said, pushing a chair toward him, and 
there was a look in her eyes he had never seen before. 

“ Well, then. Now be sharp. I don’t care to be both- 
ered with trifles; I’ve had trouble enough. Has that 
champagne been put to cool?” 

She looked, half wonderingly, in the heavy, sensual face, 
growing daily more flushed and changed. 

“Come, go on,” he said, as if the look troubled him. 
“ Now, then, what is it? Crellock is half mad. She has 
offended him horribly.” 

“ She has been defending her father’s honor,” said Mrs. 
Hallam, slowly. 

“ Defending my honor?” he said, smiling. “Ah I” 

Mrs. Hallam clasped her hands, and a sigh full of the 
agony of the heart escaped her lips. The scales seemed to 
be falling from her eyes, but she willfully closed them 
again in her passion of love and trust. 

But it was in vain. Something seemed to be tossing 
these scales away— something seemed to be rending that 
thick veil of love, and the voices she had so long quelled 
were clamoring to be heard, and making her ears sing with 
the terrible tale they told. 

She writhed in spirit. She denied it all as a calumny, 
but as she walked to and fro there the tiny voices in her 
soul seemed to be ringing out the destruction of her idol, 
and to her swimming eyes it seemed tottering to its fall. 

“You are very strange,” he said, roughly. “What’s 
the matter? I thought you were going to tell me about 
Julia and Steve.” 

“I am,” shecried, at last, as if mastering herself after 


306 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


some terrible spasm. “ Eobert, I have been told something 
to-day that makes me tremble.” 

“Some news?” he said, coolly. 

“ Yes, news — terrible news.” 

“Let’s have it — if you like,” he said. “I don’t care. 
It don’t matter, unless it will do you good to tell it.” 

Her face was wrung by the agony of her soul as she 
heard his callous words. The veil was being terribly rent 
now; and as her eyes saw more clearly, she tried in vain 
to close her mental sight; but no, she seemed forced to 
gaze now, and the idol that was tottering began to show 
that it was indeed of clay. 

“Well, don’t look like that,” he said. “ A man who 
has been transported is pretty well case-hardened. There 
is no worse trouble in life.” 

“No worse?” she panted out, in a quick, angry way, as 
words had never before left her lips ; ‘ ‘ not if he lost the 
love and trust of wife and child?” * 

“Well, that would be unpleasant,” he said, coolly. 
“ Perhaps the poor wretch would be able to get over it in 
time. Well, what is your news?” 

“I have heard you freshly accused to-day of that old 
crime of which you were innocent.” 

“Of which I was innocent, of course,” he said, coolly. 
“Is that all?” 

She did not answer for a few minutes, and then, as he 
half rose impatiently as if to go, she said, excitedly; 

“ That case I brought over, Eobert.” 

“Case?” he said, with a slight start. 

“ From the old house.” 

“ Well, what about it?” 

“ Tell me at once, or I shall go mad. What did it con- 
. tain?” 

“Papers. I told you when I wrote.” 

“That they would set him free,” the voices in her heart 
insisted. 

“ Who has been setting you to ask about that, eh?” 

She did not reply. 

“You did not keep faith with me,” he cried, angrily. 
“You have been telling Sir Gordon, or that Bayle.” 

“ I told no one,” she said, hoarsely. 

“ Ah !” he ejaculated, with a sigh of relief. 

“Stephen Crellock has told Julia what it contained, and 
she— and I— declared it is false.” 

“Stephen Crellock is a fool!” he cried, quickly. “ Go 
and fetch Julia here. She must be talked to.” 

“Eobert! my husband!” cried Mrs. Hallam, throwing 
herself upon her knees, and catching his hands, “you do 
not speak out I Why do you not passionately say it is 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. . 307 

false? How dare ha accuse you of such a crime? You do 
not speak!” 

She gazed up at him wildly. 

“What do you want me to say?” he cried, angrily. 
“ Do you think me mad, woman? Here, let’s have an end 
of all this varnish. What does Crellock say?” 

She could not speak for a few minutes, so overladen was 
her heart; and when she did, the words were hoarse that 
fell upon his ears. 

“ He said — he told our simple, loving girl, whom I have 
taught to trust in and reverence her martyred father’s 
name ; w^hose faith has been in your innocence of the crime 
for which you were sent here--the girl I taught to pray 
that your innocence might be proved ” 

“Will you go on?” he cried, brutally. “I’m sick of 
this. Now, what did he say?” 

“ That-^ — Oh, Robert, my husband, I cannot say it! 
His words cannot be true!” 

“Will you speak?” he cried. “Out with it at once! 
When will you grow to be a woman of the world, and stop 
this childishness? Now what did the chattering fool say?” 

“ That the box I brought over contained the proceeds of 
the bank robbery— money that you had hidden away!” 

Milliceiit Hallam started up and gazed about her with a 
dazed look, as if she were startled by the words she had 
heard — words that seemed to have come from other lips 
than hers; and then she pressed her hands to her heaving 
bosom, as her husband spoke. 

“Stephen Crellock must be getting tired of his ticket,” 
he said, coolly. “ An idiot! He had better have kept his 
tongue between his teeth. How came he to be chattering 
about that? If he don’t mind ” 

He did not finish the sentence, and his wife’s eyes dilated 
as she gazed at him in a horrified way. 

“ You do not deny it!” she said, at last, “You do not 
declare that this is all cruelly false!” 

“ No,” he said, slowly, “lam not going to worry myself 
about his words. He can’t prove anything.” 

“But it is a charge against your honor,” she cried — 
‘ ‘ against me. Robert ! you will not let this horrible charge 
go uncontradicted, lor an hour longer?” 

“Stephen Crellock had better mind,” said Hallam, 
slowly and thoughtfully, as if he had not heard his wife. 

“ But, Robert— my husband ! you will speak for your own 
sake— for your child’s sake— for mine?” 

There was a growing intensity in the words, whose tones 
rose to one of passionate appeal. 

He made an impatient motion that implied a negative, 


308 . THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

and she threw herself once more upon her knees at his 
feet. 

“ You will deny this atrocious charge?” 

“If I am asked I shall deny it, of course,” he said, 
coolly ; “ but you don’t suppose I’m going to talk about it 
without?” 

“ But— but— that man believes it to be true!” 

“Well, let him.” 

“Robert— dear Robert,” she cried, “you must not, you 
shall not treat it like that! It is as if you were indifferent 
to this dreadful charge.” 

“ Because it is better to let it rest, madam, so let it be. ” 

“No,” she'cried, with a wave as it were of her old trust 
sweeping all before it, “I cannot let it rest. If you will 
not speak in your own defense I must and will.” 

“ What do you mean?” he said, hastily. 

“That if for his child’s sake Robert Hallam will not de- 
fend himself against such a cruel lie. his wife will!” 

“What will you do?” he said, with an ugly sneer upon 
his lip. 

“See this man myself, and force him to deny this— to 
declare that it is not true. My husband cannot sit down 
patiently with that charge flung against his wife’s honor 
and his own.” 

He sat gazing at her from beneath his thick eyebrows 
for a few minutes as she paced the room, agitated almost 
beyond bearing ; and then he spoke in the most common- 
place way. 

“ You’ll do nothing of the kind.” 

“Not speak?” 

“ No; I forbid it!” 

“ Forbid it?” 

“Yes. Do you suppose I want my leave stopped? Do 
you want to send me back to the gang who are chained 
like dogs?” 

“Hush!” she cried, with a shudder; and she covered 
her face as if to shut out some terrible sight. “Do you 
not feel that you are running risks by remaining silent?” 

“ I should run greater risks by having the matter talked 
about. That great fool, Steve, must be warned to be more 
cautious in what he says for all our sakes.” 

“ Robert!” in a tone of horror. 

“There, there, wife, that will do! Let’s talk it ovei’ 
without sentiment; I haven’t a bit of romance left in me, 
my dear. Life out here has cleared it off. You may as 
well know the truth now as at any future time. Bah I Let’s 
tlmow away all this flimsy foolery. You’ve known it all 
along, only you’ve been too brave to show it,” 


THIS MAN^S mPH. 809 

“ T— known the truth?” she faltered. “You believe 
this?” 

‘•Yes,” he said, Muthout reading the horror and despair 
in her eyes; and the brutal callousness of his manner 
seemed to grow. ” What’s the use of shamming innocence? 
You knew what was in the box.” 

“I knew what my husband told me— that there were 
papers to prove his innocence,” she replied. 

“You knew that?” 

“They were my husband's words; and in my wifely 
faith I said that they were true.” 

He looked at her mockingly. 

“You play your part well, Millicent,” he said; “but re- 
member we are in Sydney, both twenty years older than 
when we first met at King’s Castor. Is it not time we 
talked like man and woman, and not, after ail we have 
gone through, like a sentimental boy and girl?” 

“Robert!” 

“There, that will do,” he said. “You understand now 
why you must hold your tongue.” 

It was as if once more she had snatched at the veil and 
closed it over her eyes, to gaze at him in the old, old way, 
as if it were impossible to give up the faith to which she 
had clung for so many years. 

“No,” she said, softly, “I cannot. Some things are too 
hard to understand, and this is one.” 

“Then I’ll make you understand,” he said, almost fiercely. 
“ If another word is uttered about this it will go like wild- 
fire. Some meddling fool in the government service will 
take it up; everything will be seized, and I shall be sent 
back to the gang, through you. Do you hear? through 
you!” 

She stood now gazing at him, with her eyes contracting. 
Her lips parted several times as if she were about to speak, 
and as if her brain were striving, indeed, to comprehend 
this thing that she had declared to be too hard. At last 
she spoke: 

“You shall say,” she cried, hoarsely. “Tell me what 
it was I brought over to you.” 

“What, again!” he cried. “Well, then, what I had 
saved up for the rainy day that I knew was coming. My 
fortune, that I have been waiting all these years to spend ; 
notes that would change at any time; diamonds that 
would always fetch their price. You did not guess all 
this? You did not see through it all? Bah! I’m sick of all 
this mock sentiment and twaddle about innocence!” 

She drew her breath hard. 

“ I had to fight the world when I was unlucky in my 
speculations, and the world got me down. Now my turn 


BIO 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


has come, and I can laugh at the world. Let’s have no 
more fooling. You have understood it all from the begin- 
ning, and have played your part well. Let me play mine 
in peace. 

An angry reply rose to her lips, but it died away, and she 
caught at his hand. 

“ It is true, then?” she whispered. 

“ True? Yes, of course,” he said, brutally. 

“That money, then? Robert, husband, it is not ours. 
You will give it up— everything?” 

“Give it up!” he said, laughing. “ Not a shilling. They 
hounded me down most cruelly!” 

“For the sake of our old love, Robert,” she whispered, 
as she clung to him. “ Let us begin again, and I will work 
for you. Let us try, in a future of toil, to wash away this 
clinging disgrace. My husband, my husband ! for the sake 
of our innocent child!” 

“ Give up what I have!” he cried, “Now that I have 
schemed till success is mine! Not a shilling, if it were to 
save old Sir Gordon’s life !” 

“But, Robert, for the sake of our child. I am your wife, 
and I will bear this blow, but let her go on believing in him 
whom I have taught her to love. Let the past be dead ; 
begin a new life —repentance for that which has gone. 
Robert, my husband, 1 have loved you so dearly, and so 
long.” 

“Bah!” he cried, impatiently. “You know not what 
you say. Lead a new life— a life of repentance! I have 
had a fine preparation for it here. Why, I tell you they 
would turn a saint here into a fiend ! I sinned against their 
laws, and they sent me here, herded with hundreds, some 
of whom might have been brought to better lives; but it 
has been one long course of brutal treatment and the lash. 
Hope was dead to us all, and we had to drag on our lives 
in misery and despair. I tell you I’ve had to do with peo- 
ple who sought to make us demons, and you talk to me 
now of repentance for the past.” 

“Yes, and you shall repent!” she cried, wildly. 

“Silence!” he cried, fiercely. “You are my wife, and 
it is your duty to obey. Not a word of this to Julia. I 
will speak to her; and as to Crellock--oh, I can manage 
him.” 

He thrust her aside, and strode out of the room without 
another word, leaving her standing with her hands clasped 
together, gazing into vacancy, as if stunned by the blow 
that had fallen— as if the savage acceptance of the truth 
of the charges by her husband had robbed her of her 
reason. 

During her long trial, whenever a shadowy doubt had 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


811 


crept into her sight she had slain it. Always he had been 
her martyr, and she had been ready, in fierce resentment, 
to turn upon those who would have cast the slightest re- 
flection upon his fame. He, the idol of her young life, her 
first love, had suffered through misfortune, through an ugly 
turn of fate, and she had gone on waiting for the day when 
he would be cleared. 

In that spirit she had crossed the wide ocean, bearing 
with her his freedom, as she believed; and now, after 
fighting a year against the terrible disillusion that had 
been showing Robert Hallam in his true light, the veil that 
she had so obstinately held was rent in twain, torn away 
forever— by his own confession the husband of her love 
was a despicable thief ; and as she realized how she had 
been made his accomplice in bringing over the fruits of his 
theft, the blow seemed now greater than she could bear, 
the future one terrible void. 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE SHADOW ACROSS THE PATH. 

What to do? How to bear it? How far she— woman of 
the purest thought-had sinned in participating as she had 
in Hallam’ s crime? 

It was as if the shock had blunted and confused her un- 
derstanding, so that she co uld not think clearly or make 
out any plan for her future proceeding. And all the time 
she was haunted as by a great horror. 

Now light would come, and she \vould seem to see her 
course clearly and wonder that she should have hesitated 
before. It was all so simple. Sir Gordon was there in 
Sydney, her oldest friend. He it was who had been the 
sufferer by her husband’s defalcations, and of course it was 
her duty to go straight to him and tell him all. 

No sooner had she arrived at this than she shrunk from 
the idea with horror. What could she have been thinking? 
To go to Sir Gordon was to denounce her husband as a 
criminal, and the result would be to send him back to the 
prison lines and the hideous convict life that had changed 
him from a man of refinement to a brutal sensualist, from 
whom in future she felt that she must shrink with horror. 

Those last thoughts distracted her. Shrink with hor- 
ror from him whom she had so dearly loved, from him 
whom she had believed a martyr to a terribly involved 
chain of evidence ! It was too terrible ! 

But what was she to do? She could not lead this life of 
luxury, purchased by the money she had so innocently 
brought; that was certain. She and Julia must leave there 
at once. They could not stay. 


312 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


She shivered as she thought of the difficulties that would 
rise up. For where were they? Out here, in this half-civ- 
ilized place, penniless; and what rights had she to bring 
forward if Eobert Hallam, her husband and master, said 
no, she should stay, and claim her and her child as his? 

There was light again. She could appeal to the gov- 
ernor, for Hallam had forfeited his social rights, and she 
would be free. 

Down came the darkness and shut out that light, closing 
her in with a blackness so terrible that she shuddered. 

It was impossible — impossible ! 

“ He is my husband, ’ ’ she moaned, ‘ ‘ and were he ten 
times the sinner, I could not take a step that would injure 
the man I loved — the father of my child!” 

Christie Bayle ! 

Yes ; Christie Bayle, truest and most faithful of friends, 
who in the days of his boyish love had resigned himself 
to her wishes, and promised to be her brother through 
life. 

How good he had been ; and how she had in her agony 
of spirit reviled him, and called him her husband’s enemy! 
How his conduct seemed to standout now, bright and shin- 
ing! How full of patient self-denial! Brother, indeed, 
through all, while she had been— she knew it now, and 
shivered in her agony— so obstinately blind. 

Christie Bayle would help her, and protect Julia, whom 
he loved as if she were his child. He would— yes, she re- 
iterated the thought with a strange feeling of joy —he 
would help her, as he had helped her before, in this time 
of anguish, and protect Julia from that man. 

For now came, in all its solid horror, the reality of that 
which had only been cast, so far, as a shadow across her 
path. 

This man Crellock, who had seemed like Hallam’ s evil 
genius from the first, but whom she saw now as her hus- 
band’s willing tool, had conceived a passion for her darling 
child. More; he was her husband’s chosen companion in 
pleasure and in guilt, and Hallam would— if he had not 
done so already — accept him. 

“And I sit here bemoaning my suffering,” she cried, 
passionately, ” when such a blow is impending for my dar- 
ling. Shame ! shame ! Am I ever to be so weak a woman, 
so mere a puppet in others’ hands? Heaven give me 
strength to be forgetful of self, and strong in defense of 
my child!” 

She pressed back her hair from her brow, which became 
full of lines, and resting her elbows upon her knees, her 
chin upon her hands, she sat there gazing as it were into 
the future, as she told herself that her own sufferings must 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 313 

be as naught, but that she must save Julia from such a 
fate. 

Sir Gordon? Bayle? No! no! Only as a last resource. 
Not even then ; they must be left. They had known the 
truth from the first — she saw it now — and in pity for her 
had borne all she had said, and helped her. 

No! to ask their aid was to punish her husband. That 
could not be. She must act alone, weak woman as she 
was. No; she must be strong now, and she and Julia must 
leave this man at once. They must take some cottage or 
lodging in the town, and work for a living. That must be 
the first step. 

Then came the black cloud again, to shut out the hope. 
Hallam would not allow them to go; and if they could 
steal away they were absolutely penniless. 

She sat gazing before her, feeling as if old age had come 
suddenly to freeze her faculties and render her helpless ; 
but, starting from her blank feeling of misery, she forced 
herself to think. 

What should she do? Julia should not be a convict’s 
wife; she felt that she would rather see her dead. 

Once more a ray of hope— a thin, bright ray of light 
piercing the cloud of darkness ahead. 

Lieutenant Eaton ! 

Yes, he loved Julia, and it had seemed as if Julia cared 
for him, but in her maiden innocence she had always 
shrunk from anything more than a friendly show of attach- 
ment. 

“ But he is manly, and evidently devoted to her,” said 
Mrs. Hallam, in a low voice. “She would soon learn to 
love him.” 

She ran over in her own mind all that had passed since 
the acquaintance on shipboard began. Eaton’s attentions, 
the pleasant hours Julia had seemed to spend in his com- 
pany, the young officer’s manner—every thing pointed to its 
being on liis part more than the gallant attention of one of 
his stamp. Then there was the life here since they had 
landed. His occasional calls; his evident hesitancy. It 
was all so plain. He loved Julia dearly, but he was kept 
back from proposing to her by her connections. 

“But he will ignore them for her sake,” she cried, at 
last, joyously. “He must be learning day by day how 
true and sweet she is. He will forget everything and she 
will be saved.” 

Mrs. Hallam started up with the ray of hope cutting its 
way more and more brightly through the dark cloud 
ahead ; and then her senses seemed to reel, a terrible fit 
of giddiness came over her as she tottered, caught at a 
chair, and then fell heavily upon the fioor. 


m 


THIS MAN'S WIFE, 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ TO THE BETTER WAY.” 

When Mrs. Hallam came to herself, she was in bed, 
where she had lain talking incoherently at times daring 
the greater part of a week. 

i It was evening, and the sun was shining in at the open 
window, lighting up Julia’s dark hair, as she sat with her 
face in the shadow, careworn, and evidently suffering 
deeply. 

Mrs. Hallam lay for some time feeling restful and calm. 
The fevered dream was at an end, and she had slept long, 
to wake now with that pleasurable sensation upon her that 
is given to the sick when an attack is at an end, and nat- 
ure is tenderly repairing the damages of the assault. She 
was lying there; Julia, her beloved child, was by her side. 
A veil was between her and the past, and there was noth- 
ing but the peaceful sensation of rest. 

Then, as her eyes wandered slowly about the room and 
rested at last upon her child, her mind began to work ; the 
mother’s quick instinct awoke, and she read trouble in 
Julia’s face. The memories that were slumbering came 
back, and she tried to rise in bed, but sunk back. 

“ Mother!” 

” My child! Tell me quickly, have I been ill?” 

“Yes; very, very ill. But you are better now, dear 
mother. I am so alone. Ah! at last, at last!” 

Worn out and weak with constant watching, Julia threw 
herself, sobbing, by the bedside, but only to hurriedly dry 
her eyes and to try to be calm. She succeeded, and an- 
swered the questions that came fast; and as she replied, 
Mrs. Hallam trembled, for she could see that Julia Avas 
keeping something back. 

“ Have I been delirious,” she said, at last. 

“Yes, dear; but last night you slept so peacefully, and 
all through to-day. There, let me call Thisbe.” 

“ No, not yet,” said Mrs^ Hallam, clinging to her child’s 
arm, as a great anxiety was longing to be satisfied. “ Tell 
me, Julia, did I talk— talk of anything while I was like 
that?” 

Julia nodded quickly, and the despairing look deepened 
in her eyes. 

“Not— not of your father, my child?” panted the suffer- 
ing woman. 

“Yes, mother— dear mother!” sobbed Julia, with a pas- 
sionate cry that she could not withhold, and she buried her 
face in the sick woman’s breast. 

The sun sunk lower, and Julia’s low sobs grew more 


THIS MAN'S WIFN. 


Bl5 


rare, but she did not rise from her knees — she did not lift 
her tear-stained face, while clasped about her neck, and 
her fingers joined above the glossy head, as if in prayer, 
Mrs. Hallam’s hands, thin and transparent from her ill- 
ness, seemed bathed in the orange glow of the sweet, calm 
eve. 

All was so still and restful on the hill-slope above the 
beautiful Paramatta River, and from the window there 
was a scene of peace that seemed to hinder possibility of 
there being trouble on this earth. 

“Julia,” said Mrs. Hallam at length, “have you thought 
of all this — since — since I have been lying here?” 

“ Yes, dear, till I could think no more.” 

“ It has come at last,” said Mrs. Hallam, as she lay with 
closed eyes. 

“It has come, dear?” said Julia, starting up and gazing 
at her mother with dilating eyes. 

“Yes, my child, our path. I could not see it before in 
the wild confusion of my thoughts, but I know our duty 
now. You will help me, dear?” 

“Help you, mother? Oh, yes. What shall I do?” 

Mrs. Hallam did not answer for a few minutes, and then 
said, softly: 

“ You know all, you say. It has come to you with as 
great a shock as to me; but I can see our duty now. 
Julia, he must love us dearly; we are his wife and child, 
and we must lead him back to the better way.” 


CHAPTER VIH. 

A CONVICT RISING. 

“Ah, Mr. O’Hara,” said Bayle, holding out his hand, 
“ I have not seen you for months. Why do you not give 
a call?” 

“Because I am a convict, sir.” said the young Irishman, 
paying no heed to the extended hand. 

“Oh, yes; but that is past now,” said Bayle. “One 
doesn’t look upon you as one would upon a thief or a 
swindler, and even if you had been both these Avorthies, a 
man of my cloth comes to preach forgiveness, and is ready 
to hold out the right hand to every man who is soi’ry for 
the past.” 

“But I am not sorry for the past, sir,’* said O’Hara, 
firmly. 

“ I’ve studied it all,” said Bayle, quietly, “ and the rising 
was a mistake. ” 

“Don’t talk about it, please, sir,” said O’Hara, hotly. 
“ You are an Englishman. You could not gaze upon that 


316 THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

trouble for which I was transported from an Irishman’s 
point of view. ” 

“ Then we will not talk about it,” said Bayle; “but 
come, I am no enemy of your country.” 

“ I should say, sir, that you were never any man’s enemy 
but your own,’*’ said O’Hara, dryly. 

Bayle smiled. 

“There, shake hands,” he said. “How has the world 
been using you?” 

“Better lately, sir. I am comfortable enough in the 
government office, and now l am helping the commission 
that is investigating the prison affairs. And you, sir?” 

“Oh, I am busy enough, and happy enough. Then it 
was you I caught sight of in the prison-yard a month 
ago? I thought it was, but it gave me such a chill that 
I would not look again.” 

“Why, sir?” 

“ I was afraid that you had gone backward, and were 
there again.” 

O’Hara’s hard, care-lined face relaxed, and there was 
a pleasant smile on his countenance when he spoke again. 

“ I heard a good deal about you, sir, in the lines.” 

“Indeed!” 

“ The men talked a good deal about you.” 

“ Yes?” said Bayle, good-humoredly. “I’m afraid they 
laugh at me and my notions a good deal.” 

‘ ‘ They do, ’ ’ said O’ Hara, thoughtfully. ‘ ‘ Poor wretches ! 
But you have made more impression and gained more in- 
fluence, sir, than you think.” 

“ I wish I could feel so,” said Bayle, with a sigh. 

“If you will take my opinion, sir, you will feel so,” said 
O’Hara. “ I’m glad I met you, sir, for I have been a great 
deal in the prison, lately, and I can’t help thinking there 
is something wrong.” 

“ Something wrong?” 

i “ Yes, sir. I believe the men are meditating a rising.” 

“A rising? In Heaven’s name, what do they expect to 
do?” 

“ Obtain the mastery, sir, or seize upon a vessel or two, 
and escape to some other land.” 

“ But have you good reason for suspecting this?” 

“ No other reason than suspicion— the suspicion that 
comes from knowing their ways and habits. Such a rising 
took place when I was there years ago.” 

“Well?” 

“It was suppressed, and the poor wretches who were in 
it made their case worse, as they would now.” 

“ But the authorities must be warned.” 

“ They have been warned,” said O’Hara, dryly. “lam 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


317 


not one of them now, and knowing what I do of the mus- 
ket and bayonet and the lash, I lost no time in laying my 
suspicions before my superiors. Yes,” he said, “I was 
right, was I not?” 

‘‘ Right? Unquestionably. Such men, until they have 
been proved, have no right to be free. Then that is the 
meaning of the extra sentries I have seen.” 

‘‘That is it, sir; but if the sentries were doubled again, 
I’m afraid the mistaken men would carry out their notions, 
unless some strong influence were brought to bear. Why 
don’t you try to get hold of the ringleaders, sir, and show 
them the madness of the attempt?” 

‘‘ I will,” said Bayle, quickly, and they parted; but they 
were not separated a hundred yards before there was a 
shout, and Bajde turned to see O’Hara running after him 
swiftly. 

” What is it?” he asked. 

“ I am afraid I have spoken too late, sir. I heard a shot 
out yonder, beyond that house where the new road is being 
made. A strong gang has been at work there for a fort- 
night past. Do you hear that?” 

Two distant shots in quick succession were heard, and 
Christie Bayle turned pale, for the sounds came from be- 
yond the house pointed out, and that house was Hallam’s. 

‘‘ We had better go and give the alarm at the governor’s 
office.” 

“ No, no,” said Bayle. “ W^e may be in time to help up 
here. Come quickly, man; run!” 

It seemed madness to O’Hara; but there was a decision 
in Bayle’s order that did not seem to brook contradiction, 
and being a quick, lithe man, he ran, step for step, with 
his companion as they made their way among the park-like 
growth of the hillside in the direction of the spot whence 
the sounds had come. 

Bayle had a very misty idea of what he meant to do, and 
once or twice the thought came that, after all, this might 
be only some one amusing himself with a gun after the 
beautifully plumaged birds that were common enough in 
the neighborhood then. 

These ideas were quickly overthrown, for soon they 
could see the white flannel jackets of a soldier or two in 
the distance, and the gleam of a bayonet, followed by 
another shot, and some flgures running down the side of 
one of the valleys leading to the Pacific shore. 

It was now that Bayle realized his intentions, and they 
were to go to the help of those who were at Hallam’s house, 
in case it should be attacked. 

As they came nearer, though, it was evident that the 
fight which was in progress was more to the right of the 


318 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


house, and becoming fiercer, for some half-dozen shots 
were fired in a volley from a ravine down among some 
trees, the hills being occupied by a swai’m of men. 

All at once three figures came out of the house on the 
slope, and as he advanced Bayle made out that they were 
Hallam, Crellock, and one who was unmistakable from his 
undress uniform. 

When they came out it was evident that the latter was 
urging his companions to follow him; but they stepped 
back, and he dashed on, down into the ravine. 

It was heavy running for Bayle, and the young officer 
was far ahead of him; but he hurried on, O’Hara keeping 
Avell up to his side; and together they saw him meet a 
couple of retreating soldiers, who stopped at his command, 
faced round, and accompanied him— the three plunging 
down among the bushes and disappearing from the sight 
of Bayle and his companion. ' 

“The men will be very dangerous,” said O’Hara. “Wo 
shall find them armed with picks, spades, and hammers.” 

“They will not hurt me,” panted Bayle, “and we may 
save bloodshed.” 

“I don’t think they will hurt me,” said the young Irish- 
man, grimly. “Are you going on, sir?” 

“Of course.” „ 

“Good. Then I will risk it, too.” 

They were going forward all the time, hurrying down 
into the valley, and leaving Hallam’s house away to the 
left, with Hallam and Crellock watching the proceedings, 
they having a view from their commanding position of 
that which was hidden from Bayle and his friend. 

As they ran on, though, they heard another shot or two, 
and a loud shouting, while a couple of hundred yards on 
ahead they could see four soldiers retreating along the 
slope, pursued by about a dozen of the convicts, another 
party coming toward them, a glimpse of a bayonet show- 
ing that other soldiers were being driven back toward 
Hallam’s house, while in another minute it was plain that 
Eaton had not been able to join forces with the guard. 

In fact, the convicts had divided into two parties, and 
these, going in opposite directions, were driving their 
guards before them with furious shouts. 

A little army of two, led by an officer armed with a 
slight walking-cane, had but a poor chance of success 
against some five-and-twenty savage men, whose passions 
had been raised to volcanic point by seeing a couple of 
their number shot down at the beginning of the fray, 
when they had risen against the sergeant and eight men 
who had them in charge. Of these they had beaten down 
the sergeant and two of his men, and were apparently de- 


THT^ MAN'S WIFE. 


319 


terniined upon taking revenge upon those who had fired 
upon them, before trying to escape. 

The bushes hindered the view, but at last Bayle came in 
full sight of Eaton and his two men just as a stone was 
hurled, hitting one of them in the chest, so that he went 
down as if shot. His companion turned to fly, but a furi- 
ous shout from Eaton stopped him, and he faced the enemy 
again as the young officer reached over tlie fallen soldier, 
took his musket with its fixed bayonet, and stood his 
ground, to protect the poor fellow who was down. 

It was only a matter of moments, and before Bayle 
could get up the convicts had made a rush, yelling furi- 
ously. 

It was hard to see what took place; but as Bayle ran 
down the slope, his heart beating fast with apprehension, 
the soldier dropped, and Bayle had just time to strike one 
blow on the young officer’s behalf, as the convicts closed 
him in, and bore him back against the scarped face of the 
little ravine. 

It was only one blow, but it was given with the full 
force of a strong arm, and had the weight of a well-built 
man rushing down a steep slope to give it additional 
force. 

The result was that the man Bayle struck, and another 
behind him, went rolling over, the former just as he had 
raised a spade to strike at Eaton’s defenseless head. 

“ You cowardly dogs!” roared Bayle, as failing another 
weapon he caught up a spade one of the convicts had let 
fall. 

The attack was so sudden and unexpected that the men 
gave way, and stood glaring for a few moments, till one of 
their number shouted : 

“It’s only the parson, boys. Down with ’em!” 

But they did not come on, and taking advantage of their 
hesitation, Bayle turned to Eaton. 

” Quick!” he said, “ let’s get away from here.” 

” No,” said the young officer, hoarsely. ” I can’t leave 
my men. Ah!” 

He uttered a sharp cry, and sunk down, for a piece of 
stone had been hurled at him with force enough to dislo- 
cate his shoulder, half stunning him with the violence of 
the blow. 

As the young man fell the convicts uttered a yell of de- 
light, all three of their adversaries being now hors de com- 
bat; but they were not satisfied, one of their number rush- 
ing forward to deliver a cowardly blow with a stone-ham- 
mer with which he was armed. 

Bayle did not realize for the moment that so brutal an 
act would be committed upon a fallen adversary, and he 


320 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


was so much off his guard that he only had time to make a 
snatch at the handle, and partly break the force of the 
blow, which fell on Eaton’s cap. 

Then there was a quick struggle, and the convict stag- 
gered, tripped over a loose block of stone, and fell with a 
crash. There was an ominous murmur here, and the 
men stood hesitating, each disposed to make a rush and 
revenge the fall of his companion; but there was no 
leader to combine the force and lead them on, and, taking- 
advantage of their hestation, Bayle stooped down lifted the 
insensible man, and strode away. 

The convicts were taken by surprise at this act, and 
some were for fetching him back, but the remainder were 
for letting him go. 

“Take the swaddys’ guns, lads, and let’s be off at 
once,” said one of the party, and the two muskets were 
seized, a convict presenting the bayonet of the piece 
he had secured at the breast of one of the fallen men, 
both of whom lay half stunned and bleeding on the rough 
ground. 

“Shall I, boys?” he said. 

“No; hold hard,” cried a voice, and a member of the 
party who had been in pursuit of the other portion of the 
guard came up. ‘ ‘ Tie them hand and foot, and leave them 
so as they can’t give warning. Who’s that going up the 
hill?” 

“Parson and the lieutenant,” said one of the men.” 

“And who’s that running yonder?” 

“That Irishman who was in with us— O’Hara.” 

“Can any one shoot and bring him down? Give me a 
musket.” 

He snatched the piece offered to him, took careful aim 
by resting the musket on the edge of the scarped bank, and 
fired. 

There was the sharp report, the puff of white smoke, 
and O’Hara, who was about a hundred yards to the left, 
running hard in the direction of the town, leaped up in the 
air, fell, and rolled over out of sight among the tussocks of 
grass. 

“Now, lads, he won’t give the alarm. Come on, and 
fetch back the parson. We can get something up yonder, 
too.” 

There was a shout at this, the thought of getting plunder, 
and perhaps drink, firing the blood of the wretched men, 
who let slip the golden moments open for escape, and fol- 
lowed Bayle and his heavy burden up the slope toward 
Hallam’s house. 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


321 


CHAPTER IX. 

LIEUTENANT EATON IS IN THE WAY. 

As Bayle toiled up the incline with his load, it seemed 
as if the house whose shelter he sought to reach, and which 
seemed so near through, the clear atmosphere, kept retir- 
ing further and further away. He could hear the loud, 
excited talking of the convicts, and fully expected that at 
any moment they might come in pursuit to take revenge 
upon him for his treatment of their companion, or to finish 
their work by crushing out the fiickering life of the man 
whom he was trying to save. 

The heat was tremendous, and the wild slope tangled 
with rough growth in parts that hindered his progress ter- 
ribly, while he was compelled to keep in the gully from 
the difficulty of climbing the steep side with so heavy a 
load, and from the dread that if he exposed himself too 
much to the view of the convicts he might be inviting a 
shot. 

Panting, and with his throat dry with excitement as 
much as with exertion, he toiled on, feeling as if every few 
paces had brought him nearly to a haven of refuge, but 
only on raising his eyes to see the house apparently as far 
off as ever, and to hear the voices of the convicts close at 
hand, the gully acting as a kind of tube to convey the 
sound. He paused for a moment to get a better hold of 
his burden, and Eton uttered a loud groan, but he man- 
aged to get him in an easier position, and started off once 
more, toiling on till the gully opened on his left, and he 
saw O’Hara rise from behind some bushes, where he had 
been creeping, and begin to run. Then his blood seemed 
to turn cold, his heart to stop beating, for quicker than he 
could be told, there was a shout, a dead silence, and then 
the sharp report of a musket, as O’Hara went down, and 
rolled out of sight as well. 

Bayle ground his teeth, and a chill of despair came over 
him as he realized that O’Hara had been making for the 
town to give the alarm and bring help, while now the news 
might not reach Sydney till the hour when the draft and 
their guard should return. 

“ My poor boys — my poor boys !” moaned Eaton, as Bayle 
toiled on with him, seeing now that Hallam and Crellock 
were outside the veranda, looking curiously toward him, 
but not taking a step to his aid. 

“I can’t ask their help if they do not offer it,” mut- 
tered Bayle, as he staggered on, growing weaker with his 
exertion, and finally stopping for a moment or two so as to 
get his breath, 


mm MAN^S WIFE. 


Then came the confused murmur of voices, when, look- 
ing back, he saw that he was pursued; and then, as he 
pressed forward again, the horrible thought flashed througli 
liis brain that he was leading the savage band of utterly 
reckless men right to the house where two tender women 
might even then bo trembling witnesses of what was going 
on. The agony he suffered at this thought was so great 
that he stopped short, his brain swimming; and, in spite of 
the fact that the convicts Avere close behind, he ivould 
have staggered off to the left, had not a white figure sud- 
denly appeared on the side furthest from where Hallam and 
Crellock had backed close to the window, and run swift Ij^ 
to meet him. 

It was like some episode in a dream to Bayle as that 
white figure flew to his side. 

“‘Quick, Mr. Bayle— quick!” and, catching at Eaton in 
the belief that she was helping to bear him, Julia pressed 
toward the house. 

“ Julie', are you mad?” roared Hallam, as she was seen; 
and Crellock started out after her. 

“Quick! help! help!” she cried, in a sharp, imperious 
manner; and, as is so often the case where one quick order is 
given, those who would not, if they had time to think, stir 
a finger in a cause, feel themselves moved by some irresist- 
ible influence, and obey. So Crellock seized Eaton, and 
helped bear him into the dining-room, Hallam banging-to 
the window and fastening it as Eaton was thrown upon the 
couch. 

“ You are mad!” cried Hallam, passionately. “ They’ll 
wreck the place now.” 

“They won’t hurt us,” said Crellock, coolly; and to 
Julia’s horror, he threw open the window as the convicts 
came up at the double, and rushed into the room. 

‘ ‘ Steady, mates — steady !’ ’ shouted Hallam. “You know 
us.” 

The leading men hesitated a moment, and then one of 
them made a dash at Eaton. 

“ Now, boys, have him out, ” he cried. 

Julia shrieked, and threw herself before the helpless 
man, when the convict rudely caught her by the arms to 
swing her aside, but was sent staggering sideways by a 
blow dealt by Bayle. 

“Save him, Mr. Bayle,” shrieked Julia, as she clung to 
Eaton. “Father! oh, father, help!” 

Neither Hallam nor Crellock stirred as the man whom 
Bayle had struck uttered a yell which was echoed by his 
companions, who seized Bayle and held him, as others of 
the party dragged out Eaton, fortunately insensible to all 
that was going on. . 


THIS 3fAN’S mFR 


m 


In their insensate fury, believing that they had a long 
list of injuries to repay the soldiers, who, in guarding 
them, had only done their duty, in another minute Eaton’s 
life would have been sacrificed, when there was the tramp 
of feet, an order given in a loud voice, and a party of 
soldiers, led by Captain Otway, dashed up with bayonets 
fixed. And then two wounded convicts wei*e lying on the 
floor, the others were in full flight down the gully, pur- 
sued by the soldiers, a shot every now and then breaking 
the silence that had fallen upon the group. 

Hallam was the first to speak, and he turned angrily 
upon Bayle. 

“ Were you mad, to bring him here?” he snarled. 

“Father!” cried Julia, with a reproachful look, as she 
knelt down beside Eaton to hold her handkerchief to his 
wounded head. 

Bayle made no reply to the question, but said, sternly: 

“ Mr. Hallam, you had better send for medical aid. My 
dear Julia, you had better go.” 

“ No,” she cried, with a quick, imperious look ; “send for 
help.” 

Bayle’s brow contracted, but he concealed the pain he 
suffered as he saw Julia bending over Eaton, and was 
hurrying out, but was met by Captain Otway, who came 
in breathless, followed by O’Hara and a couple of his 
men. 

“Is he much hurt?” he asked, anxiously. “Carry out 
these two men, my lads.” 

He bent down over Eaton as Julia sobbed out, “He is 
killed! he is killed!” 

“'Oh, no; not so bad as that; only stunned. Here, you 
two,” he continued, sharply, turning to Hallam and Crel- 
lock, “don’t stand there staring. Lift this gentleman on 
to the sofa.” 

Years of slavish obedience to authority had left their 
traces, and as if moved by one impulse, these two sprung 
to where Eaton was lying, and lifted him to the couch. 
The moment this was done, though, Hallam gave an impa- 
tient stamp of the foot and gazed at Crellock, who ground 
out something between his teeth. 

“Now fetch water — a sponge,” said Otway, sheathing 
his sword, throwing off his cap, and turning up his sleeves. 

“ This i^my house ” 

Hallam said no more. He had begun in a fierce, loud 
voice, and then he stopped as Captain Otway turned upon 
liim with an imperious: 

' ‘ What’s that you say ?’ ’ Then he seemed to recall where 
he was, for he glanced at Julia and Bayle. “Look here,” 


8^4 THIS MAN^S WIFH. 

he said, quietly, and he took a step or two toward Hallam, 
to whisper something in his ear. 

Hallam made no reply, but left the room, and did not re- 
turn, Thisbe hurrying in directly after with basin and 
towels, and helping eagerly. 

“Oh, come, come, my dear Miss Hallam,” said Otway, 
after cleverly bandaging the wound. “You must not take 
on like that I I can’t do anything to the shoulder — at least, 
I will not. Our doctor will soon put him right. There— 
see! he is coming to. ” 

“ I have been trying very hard,” said Julia, with a gasp; 
“ but it is so dreadful!” 

“ No, no, no! Why, my wife would have seen it all with- 
out shedding a tear. It’s only dreadful when a soldier is 
killed, and, thank Heaven! I don’t think one of our men 
has met with that fate.” 

“I wish I could feel the same about the convicts,” said 
Bayle, softly. 

“The convicts? Well, I hope so too, Mr. Bayle; but law 
and order must be maintained ; and they know their lives 
are forfeit if they attempt to escape.” 

Bayle nodded in acquiescence, as he glanced at where 
Julia knelt beside Eaton, crying softly and fanning his face. 

“There, you have nothing to fear, Miss Hallam,” con- 
tinued the captain, kindly. “Eaton has only had a few 
hard knocks — soldier’s salary, I call them. As to the ris- 
ing, the poor wretches are, I expect, all taken by this time. 
Yes, here they come.” 

He had walked to the window and gazed out, to see the 
greater part of the convict gang, hot, bleeding— some of 
them— and dejected, coming along, guarded by the soldiers 
under the command of a boyish- looking ensign. 

“ Ah, Mr. O’Hara,” he said, stepping out and laying his 
hand on the young Irishman’s shoulder, “ I think we may 
thank you for getting up in time. Your message set us off, 
and we met you just in the nick. Why, man, you are 
hurt!” 

“ Not much, sir. They shot at me, and the bullet grazed 
my arm.” 

“ Come in,” he said, “and let me see.” 

O’Hara followed unwillingly, but had to submit to have 
his wound dressed. 

“ Where is your master?” said the captain, at last, turn- 
ing to Thisbe. 

“ In his room, sir.” 

“ Fetch him.” 

Hallam uttered a furious oath when the message 'svas 
given, and swore he w^ould not come. Then rising from 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


325 


his chair, he followed Thisbe to the dining room like one 
compelled to obey. 

“lam going to leave my brother- officer in your charge, 
Mr. Hallam,” said the captain, in the quick manner of one 
giving an order. “ You will see that he has every atten- 
tion? The regimental surgeon will be up in an hour or so. 
Miss Hallam, thank you for your kindness,” he continued, 
turning his back on Hallam. “ Good-morning, Mr. Bayle. 
I’m sorry you have had such an upset. You stay here, I 
suppose?” 

“No,” said Bayle, quietly; “I am going back to the 
town.” 

“ Come with me, then.” 

He stepped out, and Bayle followed, but turned to look 
at Julia, who gave him one quick look that seemed to say 
“ Good bye,” and then as he stepped out into the veranda 
he saw her bending over Eaton again. 

“ Nice little girl that,” said the captain, as they marched 
down behind the guards and the wretched men they 
drove before them almost at the bayonet’s point. 

Bayle bowed. 

‘ ‘ Sweet and innocent, and all that. Really, Mr. Bayle, 
I agree with my wife.” 

“ Indeed!” said Bayle. 

“ Yes; she thinks that at any cost her friends ought to 
have kept her in England, and not brought her here.” 

Christie Bayle made no reply, for he was thinking of 
Philip Eaton lying wounded up at the house, and Julia in- 
stalling herself as his nurse. 

But she was not bending over him at that time, for no 
sooner had the last of the party gone than Crellock said 
something fiercely to Hallam. 

“ No, no, never mind,” the latter said, savagely. 

“ I tell you I won’t have it,” cried Crellock. “Ah, you 
needn’t scowl like that. I’m not afraid of your looks. 
Will you go and fetch her out?” 

“No, I shall not interfere.” 

“ Then I will,” cried Crellock, passionately. “I’ve been 
played with too long. ’ ’ 

“Played with!” cried Hallam. “Look here, Steve, if I 
put up with the bullying of that officer fellow, don’t you 
think I’m going to let you say and do what ” 

He stopped short and literally flinched, as if he expected 
a blow, for Crellock turned upon him sharply, but merely 
looked him full in the face. 

“ AVell, I— that is— I ” _ 

■ 3 old days of his domina- 



ceased to be slave to the 


self-indulgent man, who had become servant, first to the 


326 


THTS MAN'S WIFE, 


strong drinks in which he indulged, and then, as his nerve 
failed, the obedient tool of him who had once trembled be- 
fore him, worshiped him almost as the very perfection of 
what a man should be, and now made him tremble before 
him in his turn. 

“ Do you want to quarrel and get rid of me?” said 
Crellock, sharply. 

“Don’t talk like that, my lad,” said Hallam, piteously. 
“You know how my health’s going, and how nervous I 
am. It makes me irritable when you are so unreason- 
able.” 

“Yes, very unreasonable to bear what I do,” roared 
Crellock. “ But, reasonable or not, I’m not going to back 
out of it, and I am not going to let you.” 

Hallam’s flushed face turned of a sudden white. 

“ I’d just as soon be back with the gang,” continued Crel- 
lock, “as be trifled with in this way by a man who used 
to be one to say a thing and do it. Now he’s becoming a 
miserable, feeble driveler, afraid of every one who speaks 
to him.” 

“ So were you just now, when that Otway gave his or- 
ders. ’ ’ 

“Force of habit,” said Crellock, with a grim smile. 
“Anyhow, I’m not afraid of you, and if you have not 
strength of mind enough to carry out what I say, I shall 
do it without you.” 

“No, no, Steve; you are so hasty,” said Hallam, in a 
feeble, whimpering tone. 

“Hasty!” 

“ Well, as I keep telling you, there’s plenty of time.” 

“And I keep telling you there is not. Look here, Hal- 
lam, I’m not blind. That miserable parson wants her.” 

“Now you are getting ridiculous.” 

“And this officer fellow will be making such way with 
her, if I don’t mind, that I shall have no chance.” 

“You’re frightening yourself with bogies, Steve.” 

“You’re playing such a double game, Robert Hallam, 
that either I shall have to take the reins in my own hands, 
or we shall come to a break-down.” 

“ Nonsense! What’s the use of talking like that?” cried 
Hallam. 

“ What’s the use of a man setting his mind upon some- 
thing, and then letting a weak thing like you play with 
him? I’ll have no more of it. Now you have to do as I 
say, or break, and that means ” 

“Hush, Steve!” cried Hallam, looking sharply round; 
but Crellock paid no heed to his words, and swung out of 
the study to walk straight into the room where Julia was 
kneeling by Eaton, with Thisbe on the other side. 


Turn MAN'S WIFE. 


327 


“ Como here, Julia,” he said, roughly, “ I Avant you.” 

” Hush ! Not so loud,” she whispered, raising her hand. 

“Come here!” he cried, with a stamp of the foot, “at 
once. ’ ’ 

Julia started to her feet with an angry look flashing 
from her eyes; and as she faced him, her countenance full 
of resentment, Thisbe rose, thinking of her mistress in by- 
gone days. 

“ What do you want?” she said, firmly. 

“Your father wants you in the study at once.” 

Julia flushed slightly, and glanced" at Thisbe, whose 
face looked as hard as if cut in stone, while the resem- 
blance was increased by the position of her eyelids, which 
were drawn down, as if to veil the anger that was burn- 
ing in her breast. 

Then, without a word Julia left the room, closely 
followed by Crellock, and Thisbe was left with the 
wounded man alone. 


CHAPTER X. 

IN THE NIGHT. 

Julia escaped the interview that she dreaded ; for, just 
as they entered the hall, there was the thudding of horses’ 
feet coming over the road, and Hallam came out of his 
room with a curious, startled look in his face, to catch 
Crellock by the arm. 

“There’s something wrong, Steve,” he Avhispered, 
hoarsely ; ‘ ‘a stranger coming up and the captain with him. ” 

“Bah! You shivering coAvard,’’ said Crellock, with a 
look of contempt which made Julia bite her lip, though 
she could not hear the words. 

“ You have drunk bad brandy till you see a warder in 
every man who comes to the house. Have a little pluck 
in you, if you can.” 

The door Avas opened directly without ceremony by 
Captain Otway, Avho held it back for his companion, who 
had just dismounted, to enter. 

“ Sorry to intrude so unceremoniously, Miss Hallam,” 
said the" captain, ignoring the presence of the two men, 
“ but I met my friend here coming up: Mr. Woodhouse, 
our doctor.” 

Julia bowed, and the doctor, a little, easy-going looking 
man, took off his cap. 

“I’m a bit of a vulture in my way,” he said, pleasantly. 
“I always mount and come out to see whenever anything 
of this kind goes on. Which room, please?” he added, 
quickly. “ I want to get back.” 


328 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


Julia hastily opened the door, and was about to follow 
them, but the doctor said, quietly: 

“No, no. You shall hear how he is afterward.” 

Julia colored, for the visitor spoke in a very meaning 
tone; and, leaving the hall, she hurried to her mother’s 
side, while Hallam angrily backed into his room, followed 
by Crellock. 

“ They treat me as if T were nobody,” he cried, grinding 
his teeth; and then going to a cupboard he took out a bot- 
tle and glass, poured out some liquid, and drank it off with 
a sigh of relief. 

“ Yes,” said Crellock, slowly; “they don’t forget about 
our tickets, old fellow. Never mind. No, thank you. I 
promised Julie to leave the stuff alone,” and he thrust 
back the offered glass. 

“ You promised her that?” said Hallam. 

“Yes, and I’m going to keep my word. Hang it. Bob 
Hallam, I wouldn’t drink myself into such a wreck as 
you’re getting to be for the whole world.” 

The spirit was rapidly giving Hallam temporary confi- 
dence, and he turned upon his companion sharply. 

“ Don’t speak to me like that,” he said, “ or you’ll regret 
it.” 

“ Don’t speak to you like that?” retorted Crellock scorn- 
fully. “ Bah ! I shall speak as I please. Look here, Eobert 
Hallam, some of us must be masters, some servants. 
You’ve made yourself servant, so keep your place. I’m 
not going to be turned out of my purpose by a little Dutch 
courage.” 

Hallam came at him furiously, but Crellock took him by 
the shoulders and thrust him back into his chair, and then 
stood over him. “ It won’t do, old fellow,” he said ; “ the 
nerve has gone, and the more you drink to get it up, the 
weaker it grows. Now then, we understand each other, 
so let’s settle this matter quietly, and get it over. No 
more excuses, no more shuffling Understand me, I don’t 
mean to wait. What s that?” 

It was the voice of Captain Otway summoning some one 
to come; and Julia, who had been anxiously waiting, 
hastened down at the same time as Thisbe hurried to the 
room. 

“ The doctor wants to give a few instructions,” he said. 
“ Eaton is going on all right, but he thinks he had better 
not be moved to-night. Miss Hallam, so we must beg your 
hospitality till to-morrow.” 

“ And there is no danger?” said Julia, eagerly. 

“Not if he is kept quiet,” said the doctor, putting on his 
gloves. “Let him sleep all he can. Someone ought to 
sit up with him to night.” 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. m 

“I’ll do that,” said Crellock, who had been standing in 
the doorway. 

Julia started slightly, but Crellock’s countenance was 
quite unmoved. 

“That will do,” said the doctor. “ Come, Otway.” 

The captain raised liis cap, and they left the house. “ I 
don’t much like leaving Eaton with a ticket-of leave man 
for nurse,” said the captain, as they descended the hill to- 
ward their quarters. 

“Oh, he’ll be right enough there,” said the doctor, 
chuckling. “The young lady will take care of him. I 
say, does Phil mean to marry her?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Otway, shortly. “ Let’s get on.” 

They cantered away, and for the next two hours the 
doctor was busy with the injured soldiers; the convicts 
being safe in the prison, groaning over their wounds and 
the ill success of their attempt. 

Julia felt a strange anxiety about their patient as the 
night drew near; and her anxiety was increased by the 
behavior of Mrs. Hallam, who, after keeping her room for 
some days, declared herself well enough to come down. 

Opposition from Thisbe and her child was useless, and 
she descended to sit with the latter, watching by Eaton’s 
couch, which was made up for him in the dining-room, 
where he lay apparently insensible to all that was going 
on around. 

It was a strange afternoon and evening, the excitement 
of the early portion of the day having unnerved every one 
in the house. The meals were partaken of anyhow, and 
the attention of all was centered in the sleeping man in 
the dining-room. 

Julia, in her anxiety, was for staying with Thisbe and 
continuing the watch ; but Crellock showed that he had 
not forgotten his promise, and a nameless dread took pos- 
session of Julia’s breast. 

She told herself that it was absurd— that in spite of his 
roughness there seemed to be something genuine about 
her father’s companion; but all the same, her dread in- 
creased, and it was the more painful that she did not dare 
to communicate it to Mrs. Hallam. 

In fact she was at a loss to explain her reasons for feel- 
ing alarmed to herself. Eaton .seemed to be sleeping com- 
fortably, and Crellock, when he came into the room, was 
gentle and respectful, more than was his wont. 

“ You two had better go to bed,” said Hallam, at last, 
roughly; and, pale and troubled looking, Mrs. Hallam 
rose without a word, took Julia’s hand, and they left the 
room, but not to sleep; while Crellock’s watch began by 
his taking a candle, snuffing it, and holding it down close 


830 


THIS 3IAN^ WIFE. 


to Eaton’s face, scanning lus features well before setting 
it on the chimney-piece, lighting a cigar, and going out 
into the veranda, to walk up and down, thinking deeply. 

Sometimes he stopped to "lean his arms on the wooden 
rail and stare up at the great mellow stars that burned in 
the deep purple sky ; but only to start as from a dream, to 
go back into the room and see if the wounded man had 
moved. 

When in the veranda he ground his teeth and clinched 
his hands. 

“ The fools !” he muttered; “ they might have hit a little 
harder, and then Pooh! what does it matter?” 

At the end of an hour he stole back softly into the room 
to look at the sleeping man again. 

“ He’s not much hurt,” he muttered. “ Who’s there?” 

“ Only me,” said Hallam, in a hoarse whisper. “ Just 
coming to see how you were getting on.” 

“ No, you were not. You were watching me,” said Crel- 
lock, in an angry whisper. “ Did you think I was going 
to kill him, to get him out of the way?” 

“No, no. Nothing of the kind, my dear boy,” whis- 
pered Hallam. “ There, I’ll go back to my room.” 

“You’ll go up to bed,” said Crellock, firmly. “You’ve 
been drinking again heavily.” 

“ Indeed, no. Just a little to steady me.” 

“You go up to bed,” said Crellock, taking him by the 
shoulder. “ I’m not going to have my dear father-in-law 
elect drive himself mad with brandy. Come, no nonsense I 
Bed!” 

Hallam made a few feeble protests, and then suffered 
himself to be led up to his bedroom, Julia and Mrs. Hallam 
sitting trembling in the next, and watching the light flash 
beneath their door, as they listened to the ascending and 
descending steps, followed by a rustling in Hallam’s room, 
the low, angry muttering he indulged in, and then there 
was silence once again. 

A quarter of an hour passed, and they were listening 
to the heavy stertorous breathing, when a soft tap came at 
their door, the handle was turned, and Thisbe appeared. 

“ I only came to see if you were both quite safe,” she 
said “ I could not sleep.” 

“ Dear old Thisbe,” said Julia, kissing her. 

“Do, do please go to bed,” said Thisbe. '“ I’ll sit and 
watch by you and at last, in obedience to her prayer, 
mother and daughter lay down, but not to sleep, for the 
dread of some impending calamity that they fancied was 
about to befall them. 

Meanwhile Crellock had returned to the dining-room and 
examined the wounded man again. 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


331 


“ It wouldn't be hard,” he said to himself, with a laugh. 
“ He is half killed, so it would only be half a murder. 
Why shouldn’t I? He would be out of his misery; and 
that drunken wretch gave me the credit of being about to 
do it.” 

He stood gazing down at the sleeping face faintly seen 
by the candle-light, and then turned away to go out 
through the glass door and pace the veranda again. 

“ I wonder whether that’s what they call a temptation?” 
he thought. “ It would be very easy, and then ” 

He stopped to lean over the rails again and gaze before 
him out into the night. 

‘‘ No,” he said, softly. “ I told the little lass I wouldn’t 
drink again, so as to be more fit to come nigh her, and I 
don’t think I should do to go nigh her if I killed that spark 
of a fellow so as to be sure of getting her. It’s curious 
what a woman can do,” he went on musing. “ They can 
make anything of a man — go through fire and water to 
get her, but it must be fire and water such as she’d be glad 
to see me go through. A year or so ago I’d got to that 
state, with the prison life and the lash, t^liat I’d have given 
any soldier or warder a crack on the head and killed him, 
and felt all the happier for doing it. Since I’ve been nigh 
her — since that day she hung over me, and give me water, 
and wiped the sweat from my face, I’ve seemed as if I 
must make myself cleaner about the heart; and I have, all 
but the drink, and that was his fault, for he was never 
happy when he wasn’t forcing it on you. 

“ No, my fine fellow,” he said, with a sigh, ‘‘you’re 
safe enough for me. I won’t hurt you— and as to her lik- 
ing you — bah ! If she does I’ll soon make her forget you.’’ 

He took a cigar from his pocket, and was in the act of 
placing it between his lips, when his gaze became fixed, 
and he stood staring straight before him. 

‘‘ Who’s there?” he said, in a quick, sharp whisper. ‘‘ I 
can see you. You there!” 

He sprung over the rail, and his hand went by old habit 
into his pocket in search of a weapon; but the answer that 
came disarmed him. 

‘‘It is I!” 

‘‘ What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” 
cried Crellock. 

‘‘ I am watching,” said Bayle. 

‘‘ Yes,” cried Crellock, wearily. ‘‘ Me, I suppose. Well, 
what have you seen? Do you think I was going to finish 
young Eaton? There, speak out.” 

“I came up because I could not sleep,” said Bayle, 
quietlv. “ I was anxious about my friends. How is Mr, 
Eaton?” 


332 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ Go in and see/’ said Crellock, roughly; and he led the 
way through the veranda. 

Bayle made no reply, but walked straight to the couch, 
after taking the candle from the chimney-piece, and ex- 
amined the injured man. 

“He is sleeping comfortably and well,” he said in a 
whisper, as he replaced the candle. 

“ Of course he is,” sneered Crellock. “ You seem very 
fond of him.” Bayle paid no heed to his manner, but 
stood as if thinking. “Well, are you going to stop? 
Have a cigar?” 

“ I will stay and watch with you if you are tired, and 
relieve you for an hour or two,” said Bayle, at last. 

“ I’m not tired. You can stop if you like. You won’t 
find me very good company.” Bayle walked to the couch 
again, and stood looking down at the handsome, dimly 
seen face for a few minutes, while, with an impatient gest- 
ure, Crellock walked back into the veranda. At the end 
of a few minutes Bayle joined him. “ You are going to 
stay, then?” said Crellock. 

“ No,” replied Bayle, “ I am going home.” 

“ Better stop,” sneered Crellock. “He’ll be safer if you 
do. I might do him some mischief.” 

“No, Stephen Crellock,” said Bayle, calmly, “ I am not 
afraid of that, bad as you are. Good-night.” 

Crellock started at the words “ Bad as you are,” but the 
friendly sound of the “ Good-night ” checked him. 

“ Good -night,” he said, hoarsely; and he stood watch- 
ing the dark figure till it disappeared among the trees, and 
then paced the veranda and sat and smoked till morning. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE DOCTOR GIVES WAY. 

The doctor was up there soon after sunrise, to find Mrs. 
Hallarn and Julia by Eaton’s couch, they having come 
down to take Crellock’s place shortly after daybreak. 

“Good-morning. How is he?” said the doctor, qpickly. 
“Mrs. Hallarn, you look ill yourself.” 

“ Nervous excitement. This trouble,” said Mrs. Hallarn, 
quietly; and she left the ^-oom, after answering a few 
questions, with Julia. 

The doctor examined the injury to the head, which was 
sufficiently grave, and then proceeded to rebandage the 
shoulder that had been dislocated, watching the young 
man’s face, however, the while. 

He felt the strained sinews ; pressed on this bone, then 
on that, causing intense pain, and making his patient 
wince again and again; but though the muscles of his 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 338 

face twitched and his lips involuntarily tightened, he did 
not even moan till, passing one hand beneatli his shoul- 
der, the doctor pressed on the bones again, when, with a 
sharp cry, Eaton drew in his breath. 

“Hang it, doctor,’' he whispered, quickly, “it’s like 
molten lead.” 

“ Ah, I thought that would make you speak, Phil,” said 
the doctor. “You confounded young humbug! I saw 
you were shamming.” 

“No, no, doctor, not shamming. My head aches fright- 
fully, and I can’t move my arm.” 

“ But you could get up and walk down to barracks to 
breakfast?” 

“No, indeed I couldn’t, doctor.” 

“It’s a lie, sir. If the enemy were after you, I’ll be 
bound to say you would get up and run.” 

“By George, I wouldn’t!” whispered Eaton. 

“Well, get up and have a go at them, my boy.” 

“Perhaps I might do that,” said the young ‘man, with 
the blood coming in his white face. 

“ Pretty sort of a soldier, lying here because you’ve had 
your shoulder out and a crack on the head. Why, I’ve 
seen men behave better after a bullet -wound or a bayonet- 
thrust.” 

“But there is no need for me to behave better, as you 
call it ; and one gets well so much more quickly lying 
still.” 

“With a couple of women paddling about you, and mak- 
ing you gruel and sop. There, get up, and I’ll make you 
a sling for that arm.” 

“No, no, doctor. Pray don’t.” 

“Get up, sir.” 

“Hush! Don’t speak so loudly,” whispered Eaton. 

“Ah— h— h, I see,” said the doctor; “that’s it, is it? 
Why, how dense I am. Want to stop a few days, and be 
nursed, eh?” 

Eaton nodded. 

“Fair face to sympathize. White hands to feed you 
with a spoon. Oh, I say, Phil Eaton, no, no! I’ve got my 
duty to do, and I’m not going to back up this bit of 
deceit.” 

“I wouldn’t ask you if there was anything to call for 
me, doctor,” pleaded Eaton; “but I am hurt, there’s no 
sham about that.” 

“ Well, no; yOu are hurt, my lad. That’s a nasty crack 
on the head, and your shoulder must be sore.” 

“Sore,” said Eaton. “ You've made it agonizing.” 

“ Well, well, a few days’^ holiday will do you good. But 
no; I’m not going to be dragged up here to see you.” 


‘334 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ I don’t want to see you, doctor. I’m sure I shall 
get well without your help. Pray don’t have me fetched 
down.” 

“I say, Phil,” said the doctor, “look mein the face.” 

“Yes.” 

“Is it serious? You know— with her?” 

“Very, doctor.” 

“ But it’s awkward. The young lady’s father!” 

“ Miss Hallam is not answerable for her father’s sins,” 
said Eaton, warmly. 

“ But the young lady — does she accept?” 

Eaton shook his head. 

“Not yet,” he said; “and now that the opportunity 
serves to clinch the matter you want to get me away. Doc- 
tor, for once-— be human.” 

Dr. Woodhouse sat with his chubby face pursed up for a 
few minutes, gazing down in the young man’s imploring 
countenance without speaking. 

“Well, well,” he said, “ I was a boy myself once, and 
horribly in love. I’ll give you a week, Phil.” 

“ And I’ll give you a life’s gratitude,” cried the young 
man, joyfully. 

“ Why, by all that’s wonderful,” cried the doctor, with 
mock surprise, ‘ ‘ I’ve cured him on the spot ! Here, let me 
take off your bandages, so that you may get up and dance. 
Eh? Poor lad, he is a good deal hurt, though,” muttered 
the doctor, as he saw the color fade from the young man’s 
face, and the cold dew begin to form. “ A few days will 
do him good, I believe. He is honestly a little too bad to 
move.” 

He bathed his face and moistened his lips with a few 
drops of liquid from a flask, and in a few minutes Eaton 
looked wonderingly round. 

“Easier, boy? That’s it. Yes, you may stay, and you 
had better be quiet. Feel so sick now ?” 

“ Not quite, doctor. Ah! I am so glad I really am ill.” 

The doctor smiled and summoned Mrs. Hallam, who 
came in with Julia. 

“I must ask you to play hostess to my young friend 
here. He sha’n’t die on your hands.” 

Julia turned pale, and glanced from one to the other 
quickly. 

“Mr. Eaton shall have every attention we can give 
him,” said Mrs. Hallam, smiling; and the doctor looked 
with surprise at the way her pale, careworn face lit up 
with tenderness and sympathy as she laid her hand upon 
the young man’s brow. 

“I’m sure he will,” said the doctor; “and I’ll do my 


THIS MAN^S WIFH ^35 

best,” he added, with a quick look at his patient, “ to get 
him off your hands, for he will be a deal of trouble.” 

“ It will be a pleasure,” said Mrs. Hallam, speaking in 
all sincerity. “ Englishwomen are always ready to nurse 
the wounded,” she added, with a smile. 

“I wish I could always have such hands to attend my 
injured men, madam,” said the doctor, with formal po- 
liteness. “There, T must go at once. Good-bye, Eaton, 
my boy. You’ll soon be on your legs. Don’t spoil him, la- 
dies, he is not bad. I leave him to you, Mrs. Hallam.” 

“ And I will treat him as if he were my own son,” said 
Mrs. Hallam to herself. 

She followed the doctor to the door to ask him if he had 
any directions, received his orders, and then, with a bright, 
hopeful light in her eyes, she went softly back toward the 
dining-room. A smile began to glisten about her lips, like 
sunshine in winter, as she laid her hand upon the door. 
Then she looked round sharply, for in the midst of that 
dawning hope of safety for her child there was a heavy 
step, and the study-door opened. She turned deadly pale, 
for it was Stephen Crellock’s step; and the words that 
came from the study were in her husband’s voice. 


CHAPTER XH. 

MRS. OTWAY ON LOVE. 

“Ah, Phil, Phil, Phil!” exclaimed Mrs. Otway, as she 
sat facing Eaton some mornings later, while he lay back 
in a Chinese cane chair propped up by pillows. “ Come, 
this will not do.” 

He met her gaze firmly, and she went on ; 

‘ ‘ This makes five days that you have been here, tan- 
gling yourself more and more in the net. It’s time I took 
you by the ears and lugged you out.” 

“ But you will not?” he said, lifting his injured arm very 
gently with his right hand, sighing as he did so, and re- 
arranging the sling. 

Mrs. Otway jumped up, went behind him, untied the 
handkerchief that formed the sling, and snatched it 
away. 

“ i won’t sit here and see you play at sham in that dis- 
graceful way, Phil !” she cried. “ It’s bad enough staying 
here as you do, without all that nonsense.” 

“ You are too hard on me.” 

“ I’m not,” she cried. “I’ve seen too niany wounded 
men not to know something about symptoms. I knew as 
well as could be when I was here yesterday, but I would 
not trust myself, and so I attacked Woodhouse about you 
last nighti^ and he surrendered at once.” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


m 

“ Why, what did he say?” 

“Lit a cigar, and began humming, ‘Oh, ’tis love, ’tis 
love that makes the world go round !’ ” 

Eaton clapped his hands upon the arms of his chair, 
half raised himself, and then threw himself back, and 
began beating the cane-work with his fingers, frowning 
with vexation. 

‘ ‘ There, you see what a lot of practice it takes to make 
a good impostor,” said Mrs. Otway. 

“ What do you mean V 

“ How bad your arm seems !” 

‘ ‘ Pish !” exclaimed the young man, beginning to nurse 
it, then ceasing with a gesture of contempt, and looking 
helplessly at his visitor. “ The pain’s not there,” he said 
dolefully. 

“Poor boy! What a fuss about a pretty face! There, 
I’m half ready to forgive you. It was very tempting.” 

“ And I’ve been so happy. I have indeed.” 

“ What, with those two men?” 

“ Pish !— nonsense ! It’s dreadful that those two sweet 
ladies should be placed as they are.” 

“ Amen to that!” 

“ Mrs. Hallam is the sweetest, tenderest-hearted woman 
I ever met,” 

“ Indeed.” 

“No mother could have been more gentle and loving to 
me.” 

“ Except Lady Eaton,” said Mrs. Otway, dryly. 

“ Oh! my mother, of course; but then she was not here 
to nurse me.” 

“ I’d have nursed you, Phil, if you had been brought 
into quarters.” 

“Oh, I know that!” cried Eaton, warmly; “but you 
see, I was brought on here.” 

“ Where mamma is so tender to you, and mademoiselle 
sits gazing at you with her soft, dark eyes, thinking what 
a brave hero you are, how terribly ill, and falling head- 
over-ears more in love with you. Phil, Phil, it isn’t hon- 
est of you !” 

“ What isn’t honest?” he said fiercely. “No man could 
have resisted such a temptation.” 

“ What, to come here and break a gentle girl’s heart!” 

“But I’m not breaking her heart,” said Eaton, ruefully. 

“ I’ve written and told your mother how things stand.” 

“You have?” 

“Yes; and that you have taken the bitin your teeth, 
and that I can’t hold you in.” 

“ Well, it doesn't matter,” said Eaton, gloomily. “ I 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


337 


don’t want to hurt my dear mother’s feelings; but when 
she knows Julia and Mrs. Hallam ” 

“And the convict father and his friend.” 

“For Heaven’s sake don’t!” cried Eaton, striking the 
chair and wincing hard, for he hurt his injured shoulder. 

“ I must, my dear boy. Marriage is a terrible fact, and 
you must look at it on all sides.” 

“ I mean to get them both away from here,” said Eaton, 
firmly. “ Their present life is horrible.” 

“ Yes; it is, my boy.” 

“ My gorge rises every time I hear that drinking scoun- 
drel of a father speak to Julia, and that other ruffian come 
and fetch her away.” 

“ Not a very nice way of speaking about the father of 
your intended,” said Mrs. Otway dryly— “about your 
host.” 

“ No, and I would not speak so if I did not see so much. 
The man has served part of his time for his old crime, of 
which he swears he was innocent, and I’d forget all the 
past if I saw he was trying to do the right thing.” 

“ And he is not?” 

“ He’s lost,” said Eaton, bitterly. “ The greatest bless- 
ing which could happen to this house would be for him to 
be thrown back into the gang. He’d live a few years then, 
and so would his wife. As it is, he is killing both. As 
for poor Julia— ah! I should be less than man, loving her 
as I do, if I did not determine to throw all thoughts of 
caste aside and marry her, and get her away as soon as I 
can.” 

“ I wish she were not so nice,” said Mrs. Otway, thought- 
fully. 

“Why?” 

“ Because, like the silly, stupid woman I am, I can’t help 
sympathizing with you both.” 

“I knew you did in your heart!” cried Eaton, joy- 
fully. 

“‘Gently, gently, my dear boy,” continued Mrs. Otway. 
“ I may sympathize with the enemy, but I have to fight 
him all the same. Have you spoken to the young lady— 
definitely offered marriage?” 

“No, not yet.” 

“But you’ve taught her to love you?” 

“I don’t know — yet ” 

“ Judging from appearances, Phil, I’m ready to say I do 
know. What about mamma?” 

“Ah! there I feel quite satisfied.” 

“ What, have you spoken to her?” 

“ No ; but she sits and talks to me, and I talk to her,” 

“About Julia?” 


338 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ Yes; and it seems as if she can read my heart through 
and through. Don’t think me a vain coxcomb for what I 
am about to say.” 

“ I make no promises; say it.” 

“ I think she likes me very much.” 

“Why?” 

“ She comes into the room sometimes, looking a careworn 
woman of sixty ; and when she has been sitting here for a 
few minutes, there’s a pleasant smile on her face, as if she 
were growing younger ; her eyes light up, and she seems 
quite at rest and happy.” 

“Poor thing!” said Mrs. Otway, sadly. “But there, I 
can’t listen to any more, 1 am on your mother’s side.” 

“And you are beaten, so you may give up. It’s fate. 
My mother must put up with it. So long as I am happy 
sl\e will not care. And besides, who could help loving 
Julie? Hush!” 

There was a tap at the door, and Julia entered. 

“ Not I, for one,” said Mrs. Otway, aside, as she rose and 
held out her hands, kissing the young girl warmly. 

“Why, my dear, you look quite pale. This poor 
bruised boy has been worrying you and your mother to 
death.” 

“Indeed, no,” cried Julia, eagerly. “Mr. Eaton has 
been so patient all the time, and we were so glad to be 
able to be of service. Sir Gordon Bourne is in the other 
room with mamma. May he come in and see you?” 

“I shall be very glad,” said Eaton, looking at her fix- 
edly ; and Mrs. Otway noted the blush and the downcast 
look that followed. 

“Phil is right. He has won her.” 

“ He proposes driving you home with him, and taking 
you out in his boat. He thinks it will help your recov- 
ery.” 

“ Oh, no, I couldn’t move yet,” said Eaton, quickly. 

“I think it would do you good,” said Mrs. Otway. 
“ What do you say, Miss Hallam?” 

“We should be sorry to see Mr. Eaton go,” said Julia, 
quietly; “but I think you are right.” 

“ Phil’s wrong?” said Mrs. Otway to herself. 

At this moment Sir Gordon entered the room with Mrs. 
Hallam, and proposed that Eaton should return with him, 
but only to find, to his annoyance, that the offer was de- 
clined. 

“ You will have to make the offer to my husband. Sir 
Gordon,” said Mrs. Otway, merrily. “ You will not find 
him so ungrateful.” 

4nd then she turned to Eaton, leaving Sir Gordon free 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 339 

to continue a conversation begun with Mrs. Hallam in an- 
other room. 

“ I do not seem to find much success in my offers,” ho 
saM, in a low voice; “ but let me repeat what I have said. 
Should necessity arise, remember that I am your very 
oldest friend, and that I am always waiting to help Milli- 
cent Hallam and her child.” 

“I shall not forget,” said Mrs. Hallam, smiling sadly. 

“ If I am away, there is Bayle ready to act for me, and 
^'ou know you can command him.” 

“ I have always been the debtor of my friends,” replied 
Mrs. Hallam; “but no such emergency is likely to arise. 
I have learned the lesson of self-dexjendence lately. Sir 
Gordon.” 

“But if the emergency did occur?” 

“ Then we would see,” replied Mrs. Hallam. 

“Well, Philip, my dear boy,” said Mrs. Otway, loudly, 
“ in three days we shall have you back.” 

“ Yes, in three days,” he replied, glancing at Julia, who 
must have heard, but who went on with a conversation in 
which she was engaged with Sir Gordon unmoved. 

“ Then good bye,” she cried. “Mrs. Hallam, Miss Hal- 
lam, accept my thanks for your kindness to my boy here. 
Lady Eaton appointed me her deputy, but I’m tired of my 
sorry task. Good-bye. Are we to be companions back. 
Sir Gordon?” 

“ Yes— yes— yes,” said the old gentleman, “lam com- 
ing. Eemember,” he said, in a low tone, to Mrs. Hallam. 

“ I never forget such kindnesses as yours, Sir Gordon,” 
she replied. 

“ Good-bye, Julia, my child,” he said, kissing her hands. 
“ If ever you want help of any kind, come straight to me. 
Good-bye.” 

“ If she would only make some appeal to me,” he mut- 
tered. “But I can’t interfere without. Poor things! 
Poor things !” 

“I beg your pardon, Sir Gordon,” said Mrs. Otway. 
“ What are poor things?” 

“Talking to mj^self, ma’am — talking to myself.” 

“You don’t like Philip Eaton,” she said, quickly. 

“ Eh? Well, to be frank, ma’am, no, I don’t.”' 

“ Because he admires your little protegee V\ 

“ I’m sorry to say, madam, that she is not my protegee. 
Poor child!” 

“Hadn’t we better be frank. Sir Gordon? Suppose 
Philip Eaton wanted to marry her, what then?” 

“ Confound him ! I should like to hand him oyer fo tbe 
blacks I” 

“ What if she loved bim?” 


840 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


“If she loved him— if she loved him, Mrs. Otway?” said 
the old man, dreamily. “Why, then— dear me! This 
love’s one of the greatest miseries of life. But there, 
ma’am, I have no influence at all. You must go to her 
father, not come to me. ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

IN THE TOILS. 

“ So he goes to-day, eh?” said Crellock. 

“ Yes, I’ve seen him, and he’s going to-day.” 

“Lucky for him, for I’ve got into a state of mind that 
does not promise much good for any one who stands in my 
way,” said Crellock, with an unpleasant look in his eyes. 
“ And now, mind this: As soon as he is gone, and we are 
alone, the matter is to be pressed home. Here, I’ll be off. 
I don’t want to say good-bye.” 

He picked up his whip and stepped out into the veranda, 
walking along past the dining-room window, which was 
opened, and through it came the voice of J ulia in measured 
cadence, reading aloud. 

Crellock ground his teeth and half stopped ; but he gave 
his whip a sharp crack and went on. 

“ A row would only frighten her, and I don’t want to do 
that. The coast will be clear this afternoon.” 

He went on round to the stable, saddled and mounted 
his horse, and turned off by the first track for the open 
country. 

“A good ride will calm me down,” he said; and he 
went off at a gallop for a few miles, but with his head 
down, seeing neither green tree with its tints of pearly 
gray and pink, nor the curious tufts of grass in his path. 
A mob of kangaroos started before him and went off 
with their peculiar bounds; flock after flock of par- 
rots, with colors bright as the most gorgeous sunset, 
flew screaming away; and twice over he passed spear- 
armed blacks, who ceased their task of hunting for grubs 
to stare at the man riding so recklessly through the 
bush. 

All at once he dragged his horse back upon its haunches 
with a furious tug at the reins, and sat staring before him 
as in imagination he pictured a scene in the dining-room 
at the Gully House. 

“ I’m a fool!” he cried, savagely; “ a fool! I’ve got the 
fruit ready to my hand, and I’m getting out of the way so 
as to let some one else pluck it. Now, perhaps, I shall be 
too late.” 

Dragging his horse’s head round, he set spurs to its 
flanks, and in the same reckless manner began to gallop 


THIS 3IAN'S mFH. 


m 


back. This time he was less fortunate, though. As he 
went he left the horse to itself, and the careful beast 
avoided rough parts or leaped them, carrying his rider in 
safety. On the return Crellock was bent upon one thing 
only, getting back to the Gully House at the earliest mo- 
ment possible. Twice over the horse swerved at an awk- 
ward depression or piece of rock, either of them sufficient 
to bring both to grief, but for reward there was a savage 
jerk at the bit, a blow over the head from the heavy whip, 
and a dig from the spurs. The result was that the horse 
went on as the crow flies at a hard gallop, rushed at an 
awkward clump of bush, rose, caught its hoofs, and fell 
with a crash, sending Crellock right over its head to bo 
for a few minutes half stunned; and when be did gather 
himself up, with the scene seeming to sail round him, the 
horse was standing with its head hanging, snuffing at 
the coarse herbage, and stamping angrily with its off hind 
hoof. 

You awkward brute!” cried Crellock, catching at the 
rein, and then lashing the poor animal across the flank. 

The horse started to the full length of the rein, but only 
on three legs; one had had a terrible sprain. 

“My luck!” said Crellock, savagely, and taking off 
the bridle, he hobbled the horse’s legs, and started off to 
walk. 

4: s(! sH St: * * 

Julia went on reading, with Philip Eaton drinking in 
every word she uttered, and at last, leaning forward from 
the couch upon which he lay, he felt that the time had 
come, and. no matter who and what her relatives might 
be, here was the wife of his choice. 

“ Julie,” he said, in a low voice, made husky with the 
emotion from which he suffered. 

She raised her eyes from the book and colored, for it 
was the first time he had called her by her Christian 
name. 

“ Have you thought,” he said, “ that I am going to-mor- 
row?” 

“ I thought it was to-day,” she said, naively. 

“ To-day ? Yes, I suppose it is to-day ; but I cannot think 
of anything but the one great fact that all this pleasant in- 
tercourse is to be at an end !” 

Julia half rose. 

“No, no!” he cried, trying to reach her hand, and then 
uttering a petulant ejaculation, for Mrs. Hallam entered 
the room, looked eagerly from one to the other, and came 
forward, while Julia gave her a beseeching look, and went 
out. 

For a few minutes neither spoke, and then Eaton placed 


THIS MAN\S MHHH 


U2 

a chair for Mrs. Hallam, and as she took it, gazing at him 
searchingly, he hastily thought over what he should say, 
and ended by saying something else, for in a quick, blun- 
dering way, he cried: 

“Mrs. Hallam, I cannot say what I wish! You know 
how I love her !” 

Mrs. Hallam drew a long, sighing breath full of relief, 
and her eyes became suffused with tears. 

“Yes,” she said, at last, “ I felt that you did love her. 
Have you told Julie so?” 

“ Not in words,” he cried. “She disarms me. I want 
to say so much, but I can only sit and look. But you will 
give your consent?” 

“ Have you thought all this over?” said Mrs. Hallam, 
gravely. “You know everything — why we came out 
here?” 

“Yes, yes,” he cried quickly. “I know all. I have 
known it from your first landing.” 

“ Such a union would not be suitable for you,” she said 
gravely. 

“Not suitable! Mrs. Hallam, I am not worthy of your 
child. But you are playing with me,” he cried, his words 
coming fast now. You will not oppose it. “You see I 
know all. Give me your consent.” 

She sat looking at him in silence for some moments, and 
then laid her hand in his. 

“ Yes,” she said. ’ “ If Julie loves you I will not with- 
hold my consent.” 

“ And Mr. Hallam, may I speak to him now? Of course 
he will not refuse me. You will tell him first. And Julia, 
where is she?” 

In his eagerness his words came hurriedly, and he 
caught Mrs. Hallam’s hands to his lips and kissed them. 

“I will fetch Julie here,” she said gently, and with a 
strange look of repose coming over the troubled face. 

She left the room and sought Julie, who looked at her 
wonderingly. 

“ Come,” she said, with her voice sounding broken and 
strange; “ Mr. Eaton wishes to speak to you.” 

“ Mother!” exclaimed Julia, shrinking. 

At that moment they heard Hallam’s steps as he passed 
along the hall into his room. 

Mrs. Hallam’s countenance changed, and she shud- 
dered. 

“ Come,” she said; “ you are not afraid of him?” 

“Of Mr. Eaton? Oh no,” cried Julia, with animation; 
“ but ” 

“ Hush, my child ! I will not leave you. Hear what he 
has to say before you speak.” 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFK 


348 


Julia’s eyes seemed to contract, and there was a shrink- 
in{? movement, but directly after she drew herself up 
proudly, laid her hand in her mother’s, and suffered her- 
self to be led into the room. 

“ At last!” cried Eaton, flushing with pleasure. “Julie, 
I dare speak to you now. I love you with all my heart.” 

He stopped short, for the window -was darkened by the 
figure of Stephen Crellock, who looked in for a moment, 
and then beckoned with his hand to some one in the ve- 
randa. Hallam came forward, looking flushed and angry, 
and the two men entered the room. 

“ We are just in time,” said Crellock, with a half laugh, 
but with a savage flash of the eye at Eaton. “ Mr. Lieu- 
tenant Eaton is bidding the ladies good-bye.” 

Eaton gave him an indignant look, and turned to Hal- 
lam. 

“ Mr. Hallam,” he said proudly, “ Mr. Crellock is wrong. 
I have been speaking to Mrs. Hallam and ” 

“Mr. Crellock is right,” said Crellock, in a voice of 
thunder, “ and Mr. Eaton is wrong. He is saying good- 
bye ; and now, Robert Hallam, will you tell him why ?” 

“Yes,” said Hallam, firmly; “Mr. Eaton should have- 
spoken to me, and I would have explained at once that Mr. 
Stephen Crellock has proposed for my daughter’s hand, and 
I have promised that she shall be his wife.” 

“ But this is monstrous,” cried Eaton, furiously. “ Julie, 
I have your mother’s consent. You will be mine ?” 

Julia looked at him pityingly and shook her head. 

“ Speak 1 for Heaven’s sake, speak I” cried Eaton. 

“No,” she said, in a low, pained voice. “ You have mis- 
taken me, Mr. Eaton. I could never be your wife.” 

Eaton turned to Mrs. Hallam, to meet her agonized, 
despairing eyes, and then, without a word, he left the 
room. 

For the blow had fallen ; the shadow Miilicent Hallam 
had seen athwart her daughter’s life had assumed consist- 
ency, and as the thought of her own fate came with its 
dull, despairing pain, she caught Julia to her breast to 
protect her from Crellock, and faced him like some wild 
creature in defense of her young— standing at bay. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

FOR JULIE. 

“Where are you going?” said Crellock, roughly, as, 
prowling about the veranda, in pursuance of a determina- 
tion to take care that there should be no further inter- 
ference with his plans, he carefully watched the place, 


344 


mis MAN^S WIFE. 


ready to refuse entrance, in Hallam’s name, to every one 
who came till he had made sure of his prize. 

It was very early in the morning, and he had come sud- 
denly upon Thisbe, dressed for going out, and with a 
bundle upon her arm. 

“ Into town,” she said, sharply. 

“ What for?” 

“To stay.” 

‘ ‘ It’s a lie !” he said. “You are going to take a message 
to that parson, or the lieutenant. You have a letter.” 

“ No, I haven’t,” said Thisbe, looking harder than ever. 

“ What’s in the bundle?” 

“ Clothes. Want to see ’em? you can look.” 

“Come, no nonsense, Thisbe! You don’t like me, I 
know.” 

“ I hate the sight of you !” said the woman, stoutly. 

“So you may; but look here, you may as well under- 
stand that in future I shall be master here, and for, your 
own sake we may as well be friends. Now then, where 
are you going?” 

“Into town, I tell you; and I shall send for my box. 
It’s corded up in my room.” 

“Why, what do you mean?” he said. 

“ That I’m going, and I’m not coming back ; and you two 
may drink yourselves to death as soon as you like.” 

She brushed by him, and before he had recovered from 
his surprise she was going down the path toward the gate. 

A thought struck Crellock, and he ran up-stairs to the 
room Thisbe had occupied, and, sure enough, there was 
the big chest she had brought with her, corded up tightly, 
and with a direction- card tacked on, addressed: “Miss 
Thisbe Bing. To be called for.” 

“ So much the better,” he said, joyously; “that woman 
had some influence with Mrs. Hallam, and might have 
been unpleasant.” 

That day he went down the town to one of his haunts, 
and after a good deal of search found out that Thisbe was 
in the place, and had taken a small cottage in one of the 
outskirts. So, satisfied with his discovery, he returned, 
to find a man with a pony and dray on his way up to the 
house, where he claimed the box for its owner, and soon 
after bore it away. 

Hallam was in his room, half dozing by the open win- 
dow, ready to give him a friendly nod as he entered, threw 
down his riding-whip, and took up his usual position, with 
his back to the fireplace. 

“ Well,” said Hallam, “ what news?” 

“ Oh, she has gone, sure enough.” 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE, 


845 


“ So much the better,” said Hallam. “ I always hated 
that woman.” 

“ What news have you?” 

“ None at all.” 

“ Have you told your wife that I wish the marriage to 
take place at once?” 

“No.” 

“ Then go and tell her.” 

Hallam shifted uneasily in his chair, but did not stir. 

“Look here!” cried Crellock, fiercely, “ do you want me 
to go through all our old arguments again? There it is, 
the marriage or the gang.” 

“ You would have to go too!” said Hallam, angrily. 

“ Oh, no! Don’t make a mistake. I did not bring over 
the plunder; and not a single note you have changed can 
be brought home to me. Your leg is in the noose, or in 
the irons again, if you like it better. No nonsense! Go 
and see her while I prepare Julia.” 

Hallam rose, went to the cupboard, poured a quantity of 
brandy into a tumbler, gulped it down, and went to the 
drawing-room. Mrs. Hallam, who was looking white and 
hollow of cheek, was seated alone, with Julia, half-way 
down the garden-slope, gazing pensively toward the town. 

Mrs. Hallam rose quickly, as if in alarm, but Hallam 
caught her hand, and then softly closed the window, in 
spite of her weak struggle, as she saw Crellock crossing 
the garden to where Julia was standing. 

“ Now, no nonsense!” he said. “ There, sit down.” 

Mrs. Hallam took the chair he led her to, and gazed up 
at him as if fascinated by his eyes. 

“ I may as well come to the point at once,” said Hal- 
lam. “ You know what I said the other night about Crel- 
lock?” 

“Yes,” she replied, hoarsely. 

“ Well, he wishes it to take place at once, so we may as 
well get it over.” 

“ It is impossible!” she said, in a low voice. 

“ It is not impossible !” he said, hashing into anger. “ It 
is necessary for my comfort and position that the wedding 
should take place at once.” 

“ No, no, Robert!” she cried, in a last appeal; “ for the 
sake of oui- old love, give up this terrible thought. If 
you have any love left for me, spare our child this degra- 
tion !” 

She threw herself upon her knees and clasped his 
hands. 

“ Don’t be foolish and hysterical,” he said, coldly ; “ and 
listen to reason, unless you want to make me angry with 
you. Get up !” 


346 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


She obeyed him without a word. 

“Now listen. I shouldn’t have chosen Crellock for her 
husband, but he is very fond of her, and I cannot afford 
to offend liim, so it must be.” 

“ It would kill her!” panted Mrs. Hallam. “ Our child I 
Robert— husband— my own love ! don’t, don’t drive me to 
do this 1” 

“ I’m going to drive you to obey me in this sensible mat- 
ter, which is for the good of all. There, you see the girl 
is listening to him quietly enough.” 

“It would kill her! For the sake of all the old times, 
do not drive me to this — my husband !” pleaded Mrs. Hal- 
lam again. 

“ You will prepare her for it; you will tell her it must 
be as soon as the arrangements can be made ; you will stop 
all communications with Bayle and old Sir Gordon, and do 
exactly as I bid you. Look here, once let Julia see that 
there is no other course, and she will be quiet and sensible 
enough.” 

“ Once more !” cried Mrs. Hallam, passionately, “spare 
me this, Robert, and I will be your patient, forgiving wife 
to the end ! I tell you it would break her heart!” 

“ You understand !” he said. “There, look at her!” he 
cried, pointing. “ Why, the girl loves him after all.” 

Julia was coming slowly up the path, with Crellock 
bending down and talking to her earnestly, till he reached 
the window, which Hallam unfastened, shrinking back 
and leaving the room, as if he could not face his child. 

As Julia entered, Crellock seemed to have no wish to en- 
counter Mrs. Hallam, and he drew back and went round 
the house to the study-window, where he stopped, leaning 
on the veranda rail and gazing in, as Hallam stood at the 
cupboard, pouring himself out some more brandy. He 
had the glass in one hand, the bottle in the other, when he 
caught sight of the figure at the window, and, with a start 
and cry of horror, he dropped bottle and glass. 

“ Bah! where is your nerve, man?” cried Crellock, with 
a laugh of contempt. “ Did you think it was a sergeant 
with a file of men to fetch you away?” 

“ You— you startled me,” cried Hallam, angrily. “ All 
that brandy gone !” 

“A good thing, too! you’ve had plenty. Well, have 
you told her?” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ What did she say ?” 

“ The old thing.” 

“ But you made her understand?” 

“ Yes. What did Julia say?” 


^HIS MAN^S WIFE. 


347 


“ Oil, very little. Told me she could never love me, of 
course; but she’s a clever, sensible girl.” 

“ And she has consented?” 

“ Well, not exactly ; but it’s all right. There will be no 
trouble there.” 

Meanwhile Julia had gone straight to her mother and 
knelt down at her feet, resting her hands upon her knees, 
in her old childlike position, and gazing up in the pale, 
wasted face for some minutes without speaking. 

‘‘ There is no hope, mother,” she said, at last; “ it must 
be.” 

Mrs. Hallam sat without replying for some minutes; 
then, taking her child’s face between her thin hands, she 
bent down and pressed her lips upon the white forehead. 

“Julie,” she whispered, “ I was wrong. I thought you 
loved Mr. Eaton, and I believed that if you married him it 
would have cut this terrible knot.” 

Julia smiled softly, and with her eyes half closed. There 
was a curious, rapt expression in her sweet face, as if she 
were dreaming of some impossible joy. Then, as if rousing 
herself to action, she gave her dark curls a shake, and said 
quietly : 

“ If I had loved Mr. Eaton, it would only have cut the 
knot as far as I was concerned. Mother, he would have 
broken ray heart !” 

“ No, no! he loved you dearly 1” 

“ But he would have taken me from you ! No, I did not 
love him, but I liked him very much. But there, we 
must think and be strong, for there is no hope, dear 
mother, now. You are right. And you will be firm and 
strong?” 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Hallam, rising. “ For your sake, my 
child— my child 1” 

CHAPTER XV. 

CRELLOCK ON GUARD. 

That night, after the roughly prepared meal that took 
the place of dinner, and at which mother and daughter re- 
sumed their places as of old, Hallam sat for some time with 
Crellock, talking in a low tone, while Mrs. Hallam returned 
to the drawing-room with Julia, both looking perfectly 
calm and resigned to their fate. 

At last Hallam rose and, followed by Crellock, crossed 
the hall and opened the drawing-room door, where his wife 
and child were seated with the light of the candles shining 
softly upon their bended heads. 

“ it will be all right,” he muttered ; and he turned round 
and faced Crellock, who smiled and nodded. 


848 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ Nothing like a little firmness,” he said, smiling. 

Then Crellock went into the veranda to smoke his cigar 
and play the part of watch-dog in case of some interrup- 
tion to his plans; and, while Hallam employed himself in 
his old fashion, drinking himself drunk in the house of 
Alcohol, his god, the dark calm’evening became black night, 
and a moist, soft wind from the Pacific sighed gently round 
the place. 

Crellock walked round the house time after time, peer- 
ing in at the windows, and each time he looked there was 
the heavy stolid face of Hallam staring before him at 
vacancy; on the other side of the house Julia gazing up 
into her mother’s face as she knelt at her feet. 

It must have been ten o’clock when, as Crellock once 
more made his round, he saw that Hallam was asleep, and 
that Mrs. Hallam had taken up the candle still burning, 
and with Julia holding her hand, was looking round the 
j oom as if for a last good-night. 

Then together they went to the door, hand-in hand ; the 
door closed ; the light shone at the staircase window, then 
in their bedroom, where he watched it burn for about a 
quarter of an hour before it was extinguished, and all was 
dark. 

“ I sha’n’t feel satisfied till I have her safe,” he said, as 
he walked slowly back to his old lookout that commanded 
the road. 

The wind came in stronger gusts now, for a few minutes, 
and then seemed to die quite away, while the clouds that 
overspread the sky seemed to grow so dense that it was 
hard to distinguish the trees and bushes a dozen yards from 
where he stood. 

He finished his cigar, thinking out his plans the while, 
and at last, coming to the conclusion that it was an un- 
necessary task this watching, he was about to make one 
more turn round the veranda, and then enter by the win- 
dow and go to bed, when he fancied he heard a door close, 
as if blown by the wind that was once more sighing about 
the place. 

‘Just woke up, I suppose,” he said, and he walked to- 
ward the study-window and looked in. Hallam had not 
moved, but was sleeping heavily in his old position. 

Crellock listened again, but all was perfectly still. It 
could not have been fancy. Certainly he had heard a door 
bang softly, and the sound seemed to come from this direc- 
tion. ' 

He stood thinking, and then went round and tried the 
front door. 

“Fast!” 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


849 


He walked round to the back door, following the veranda 
all the way, and found that door also fast. 

“ I couldn’t have been mistaken,” he said, as he listened 
again. 

Once more the wind was sighing loudly about the place, 
but the noise was not repeated, and he walked on to the 
dining-room window; but as he laid his hand upon the 
glass door and thrust it open, a current of air rushed in 
and there was the same sound ; a door blew to with a slight 
bang. 

Crellock closed and fastened the glass door as he stepped 
out and ran quickly round to the drawing-room, where it 
was as he suspected ; the glass door similar to that he had 
just left was open, and blew to and fro. 

“ There’s something wrong!” he said, excitedly, his sus- 
picions being aroused : and dashing in, he upset a chair in 
crossing the room, and it fell with a crash, but he hurried 
on into the hall, through to the study, and caught Hallam 
by the arm. 

“ Wake up!” he said, excitedly. “ Hallam! Wake up, 
man!” 

He had to shake him heavily before the drink stupefac- 
tion passed off, and then Hallam stood trembling and hag- 
gard, trying to comprehend his companion’s words. 

“ Wrong?” he said — “wrong? What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t know yet. Quick, man! Run up to your 
wife’s room. Take the candle.* Quick, man; are you 
asleep?” 

In his dazed state, Hallam staggered, and his hand 
trembled so that he could hardly keep the light anything 
like steady. There was the knowledge, though faintly 
grasped, that something was terribly wrong. He gathered 
that from his companion’s excited manner, and, stumbling 
on into the hall, blundered noisily up the stairs, while 
Crellock stood breathing hard and listening. 

“Here, Millicent! Julie!” he cried, hoarsely; “what’s 
the matter?” 

Crellock heard the door-handle turn, and the door 
thrown open so violently that it struck against the wall, 
but there was no reply from the voices of frightened 
women. 

“ Do you hear? Milly — Julie! Why don’t you answer?” 
came from above, and Crellock’s harsh breathing became 
like the panting of some wild beast. 

For a few moments there was absolute silence; then the 
sound of stumbling, heavy steps, and Hallam came out on 
to the landing. 

“Steve !” he cried, excitedly, perfectly sober now, “ what 
is it? What does it mean? They’ve gone 1” 


350 


THIS MAN’S WIFE. 


“I knew it,” cried Crellock, with a furious ciy. “I 
might have seen it if I had not been a fool. Come down, 
quick ! They’ve not gone far.” 

Candle in hand, Hallamcame staggering down the stairs 
with his eyes staring and his face blotched with patches of 
white. 

“They’ve gone,” he stammered, hoarsely, “ What for? 
Where have they gone !” 

“Out into the dark night,” cried Crellock, furiously. 
“There is only one way that they could go, and we must 
have them before they reach the town.” 

“ Town !” faltered Hallam ; “ town !” for in the horror of 
his waking, and the conscience-hauntings of the moment, 
he seemed to see two ghastly white faces looking up at him 
from the black waters of the harbor. 

“Yes, come along, follow me as quickly as you can,” 
roared Crellock, and going swiftly through the dining- 
room, he crossed the veranda and dashed out into the 
thick darkness that seemed to rise up as a protecting wall 
on behalf of those whom he pursued. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE FLIGHT. 

“I AM SO weak, my child,” sighed Mrs. Hallam, “ that 
my heart fails me. What shall I do?” 

Julia stood over her, dressed for flight, and a chill of de- 
spair seized her. 

“Oh, mother, try — try,” she whispered. 

“ I am trying, Julie. I am fighting so hard, but you 
cannot realize the step I am trying to take; you cannot see 
it, my child, as it is spread before me.” 

“ Let us stay, then,” whispered Julie, “ and to-morrow I 
will appeal to Sir Gordon to come to our help.” 

“No,” said Mrs. Hallam, firmly, as if the words of her 
child had given her strength, “ we can ask help of no one 
in such a strait as this, Julie; the act must be mine and 
mine alone; but now the time has come, my child, I feel 
that it is too much.” 

“ Mother!” sobbed Julie, “ that man horrifies me. You 
heard all that my father said. I would sooner die than be- 
come his wife.” 

Mrs. Hallam caught her arm with a sharp grip, and re- 
mained silent for a few moments. 

“Yes,” she said, at last, “and much as I love you, my 
own, I would sooner see you dead than married to such a 
man as he. You have given me the courage I failed in, 
my darling. For myself, I would live and bear until the 
end; but I am driven to it— I am driven to it. Come!” 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE, 


351 


They were standing in the dark, and now for the time 
being Mrs. Hallam seemed transformed. Gathering her 
cloak about her, she went quickly to the door and listened, 
and then turned and whispered to Julia. 

“ Come at once,” she said. “Follow me down.” 

Julia drew a long breath and followed her, trembling, 
che boards of the lightly built house cracking loudly as she 
passed quickly to the stairs. And again in the silence and 
d.irkness these cracked as they passed down. 

Ill the hall Mrs. Hallam hesitated for a moment, and 
then, putting her lips to Julia’s ear: 

“Stop!” she whispered. 

Julia stood listening, and with her eyes strained toward 
where a light shone beneath the ill-fitting study door, from 
which, in the stillness, the heavy, stertorous breathing of 
Hallam could be heard. She could hear, too, the faint 
rustle of Mrs. Hallam’s dress as she paced along the hall; 
and as Julia gazed in the direction she had taken, the light 
chat streamed from beneath, and some faint rays from the 
side, showed indistinctly a misty figure which sunk down 
on its knees and remained for a few moments. 

The silence was awful to the trembling girl, who could 
not repress a faint cry as she heard a loud cough coming 
from beyond the dining-room. 

But- she, too, drew her breath hard ; and set her teeth, as 
if the nearness of her enemy provoked her to desperate re- 
sista,!)ce. and she stood waiting there firmly, but wonder- 
ing the wliile whether they would be able to escape or be 
stopped in the act of flight by Crellock, whom she knew 
to be watching there. 

She dare not call, though she felt that her mother was 
again overcome by the terrors of the step they had re- 
solved to take, and the moments seemed interminable be- 
fore there was a change in the light beneath the door, and 
a faint rustle mingled with the heavy bre.i thing. Then 
her hand was clasped by one like ice in its coldness, and, 
as if repeating the prayer she had been uttering, Julia 
heard her mother say in a faint whisper: 

“ It is for her sake— for hers alone.” 

Julia drew her into the drawing-room as they had plan- 
ned, and closed the door. Then Mrs. Hallam seemed to 
breath more freely, 

“ The weakness has passed, Julie,” she said, softly. 
“We must lose no time.” 

They crossed the rocm carefully to where a dim light 
showed the French window to be, and Mrs. Hallam laid 
her hand upon it firmly, and turned the fastening after 
slipping the bolt, 


352 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ Keep a good heart, my darling,” she said. “You are 
not afraid?” 

“Not of our journey, mother,” said Julia, in agitated 
tones; “ but of— a listener.” 

“Hist!” whispered Mrs. Hallam, drawing back; and the 
window which she bad opened swung to with a faint click 
as the firm pace of Crellock was heard coming along the 
veranda; and as they stood there in the darkness they 
could see the dim figure pass the window. 

Had he stretched forth a hand he would have felt the 
glass door yield, and have entered and found them there ; 
and, knowing tnis, they stood listening to the beating of 
their hearts till the figure passed on and they heard the 
step of the self- constituted sentry grow faint on the other 
side of the house. 

“ Julie, are you ready ?” 

“Yes mother; let us go — anywhere so that I may not 
see that man again.” 

Mrs. Hallam uttered a sigh of relief, for her child’s - 
words had supplied her once more with the power that 
was failing. 

“ It is for her sake,” she muttered again. Then, in a 
low whisper, “Quick! your hand. Come.” And they 
stepped out into the veranda, drew the door to without dar- 
ing to stop to catch it, and the next minute they were 
threading their way among the trees of the garden, and 
making for the gate. 

The darkness was now intense, and though the faint 
twinkling of lights showed them the direction of the town, 
they had not gone far before they found themselves astray 
from the path, and after wandering here and there for a 
few minutes, Mrs. Hallam paused in dread, for she found 
that there was now another enemy in her path upon which 
she had not counted. 

She spoke very calmly, though, as Julia uttered a gasp. 

“The wind is rising,” she said, “and it will soon grow 
lighter. Let us keep on.” 

They walked on slowly and cautiously in and out 
among the trees of what was in the darkness a complete 
wilderness. At times they were struggling through bushes 
that impeded their progress, and though time after time 
the track seemed to be found, they were deceived. It 
was as if nature were fighting against them to keep them 
within reach of Hallam and his friend, and though they 
toiled on, a second hour had elapsed and found them still 
astray. 

But now as they climbed a steep slope, the wind came 
with a gust, the clouds were chased before it, there was the 


THIS MAN’S WIFK 858 


glint of a star or two, and Mrs. Hallam uttered an exclama- 
tion. 

“ There,” she cried, “to the left! I can see the lights 
now !” 

Catching Julia’s hand more firmly, she hurried on, for 
the night was now comparatively light, but neither 
uttered a word of their thoughts as they gave a fright- 
ened glance back at a dim object on the hill behind, for 
they awoke to the fact that they had been wandering 
round and about the hill and gully, returning on their 
steps, and were not five hundred yards away from their 
starting-post. 

At the end of a quarter of an hour the stars were out 
over half the vault of heaven, and to their great joy the 
path was found— the rough track leading over the unoccu- 
pied land to the town. 

“ Courage, my child I” whispered Mrs. Hallam ; “ another 
hour or two and we shall be there I” 

“lam trying to be brave, dear,” whispered back Julia, 
as the track descended into another gully; “but this feel- 
ing of dread seems to tire me, and — oh I listen I” 

fes. Hallam stopped, and plainly enough behind them 
there was the sound of bushes rustling; but the sound 
ceased directly. 

“Some animal— that is all,” said Mrs. Hallam, and they 
passed on. 


Once more they heard the sound, and then, as they were 
ascending a little eminence before descending another of 
the undulations of the land, there came the quick beat of 
feet, and mother and daughter had joined in a convulsive 
grasp. 

“We are followed,” panted Mrs. Hallam. “We must 
hide.” 


As she spoke they were on the summit of the slope, with 
their figunis against the sky-line to any one below, and in 
proof of this there was a shout from a short distance 
below, and a cry of “ Stop!” 

“Crellock!” muttered Mrs. Hallam, and she glanced 
from side to side for a place of concealment, but only to 
see that the attempt to hide would be only folly. 

“ Can you run, Julie?” she whispered. 

For answer Julie started off, and for about a hundred 


yards they ran down the slope, and then stopped, panting. 
They could make no further effort, save that of facing 
their pursuer, who dashed down to them breathless. 

“ A pretty foolish trick,” he cried. “Mercy, I found 
you gone, and came. What do you expect would become 
pf you out here in the night?” 


THIS MANX’S WIFE. 


“Loose my hand,” cried Julia, angrily; “I will not 
come back.” 

“ Indeed but you will, little wifie. There, it’s of no use 
to struggle; you are mine, and must.” 

“Julia, hold by me,” cried Mrs. Hallam, frantically. 
“Help!” 

“Hal” 

That ejaculation was from Crellock, for as Mrs. Hallam’s 
appeal for help rang out among the trees of the gully into 
which they had descended, there was the dull sound of a 
heavy blow, and their assailant fell with a crash among 
the low growth of scrub. 

“ This way,” said a familiar voice. “Do you want to 
join Thisbe Bing?” 

“Yes, yes,” cried Julia, sobbing now; “but how did you 
know?” 

“How did I know?” was the reply, half-sadly, half- 
laughingly. “ Oh, I have played the spy; waiting till you 
wanted help.” 

“Christie Bayle!” wailed Mrs. Hallam; “ my friend in 
need.” 

He did not answer. He hardly heard her words as Mrs. 
Hallam staggered on by his side, for two little hands were 
clinging to his arm, Julia’s head was resting against him, 
as she nestled closer and closer, and his heart beat madly, 
for it seemed to him as if it was in his breast that Julia 
Hallam would seek for safety in her time of need. 


CHAPTER XVIT. 

IN SANCTUARY. 

“Let them come if they dare, my dear,” said Thisbe, 
stoutly. “ I’ve only waited for this. You know how I’ve 
never said word against him, but have seen and borne 
everything.” 

“Yes, yes,” sighed Mrs. Hallam. 

“ For, I said to myself, the day will come when she will 
see everything in its true light, and then ” 

Thisbe said no more, but cut her sentence in half by 
closing her lips more tightly than they had ever been 
closed before, as, with a smile, she busied herself about 
Julia and her mother. 

“ I was in a way last night,” she said, cheerily, as she 
straightened first one thing and then another in the mod- 
est lodgings she had secured, “but I daren’t come away 
for fear you might get here while I was looking for vou. 
You don’t know the relief I felt when Mr. Bayle knocked 
at the door with you two poor tired things. There, you 
needn’t say a word, only be quiet and-rest.” 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


i555 


Thisbe nodded from one to the other, and smiled as if 
tliere were not a trouble in the world. Then she stood 
rolling up her apron, and moistening her lips, as if there 
were something she wanted to say but hesitated. At last 
she went to Mrs. Hallam’s side, and took hold of the sleeve 
of her dress. 

“ Let me go and ask Mr. Bayle to take berths for you on 
board the first ship that’s going to sail, and get taken away 
from this dreadful place.” 

Mrs. Hallam gazed at her wistfully, but did not answer 
for a few moments. 

‘‘I must think, Thibs,” she said; “I must think; and 
now I cannot, for I feel as if I am stunned.” 

“ Then lie down a bit, my dear Miss Milly. Do, dear. 
She ought to, oughtn’t she. Miss Julie? There, I knew she 
would. It’s to make her strong.” 

It was as if old girlish days had come back, for Mrs. 
Hallam yielded with a sigh to the stronger will of the 
faithful old servant, letting her lift and lay her down, and 
closing her ej'es with a weary sigh. 

“ Now I may go to Mr. Bayle, mayn’t I?” 

“No,” said Mrs. Hallam, sternly. 

“ Then to Sir Gordon, and ask him to help us?” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Hallam again; “ I must work alone in 
this— and I will.” 

She closed her eyes, and in a few minutes she seemed to 
have dropped asleep, when Thisbe signed to Julia to ac- 
company her out of the room. 

“Don’t you fret and trouble yourself, my darling,” she 
whispered. “ I’ll take care no one comes and troubles you. 
She’s worn out with suffering, and no doctor would do her 
good, or we’d soon have the best in Sydney. What she 
wants is rest and peace, and your dear, loving hands to 
hold her. If anything will ease her, that’s it.” 

She kissed Julia, and the next moment the girl’s arras 
were clasped about her neck, as she sobbed upon her 
breast. 

“ It’s so terrible !” she cried. “ I can’t bear it ! — I can’t 
boar it! I tried so hard to love him; but— but ” 

“ An angel with wings couldn’t have loved such a father 
as that, my dear.” 

“Thibs!” 

“ Well, there, then, I won’t say much, my darling; but 
don’t you fret. You’ve both done quite right, for there’s a 
p^mte beyond which no one can go.” 

“ But if we could win him back to ” 

“ Make you marry that man Crellock ! Oh, my darling, 
there’s no winning him back. I said nothing, and stood 
by you both to let you try, and I was ready to forgive 


m this man^s wifz 

everything; but oh, my pet! I knew how bad it all was 
from the very first.” 

“No— no, Thibs! you didn’t think him guilty when he 
was sent out here ?” o.- ^ 

“Think, my dear! No, I knew it, and so did Sir Gor- 
don and Mr. Bayle; but for her sake they let her go on 
believing in him. Oh, my dear! only that there’s you 
here, I want to know why such a man was ever allowed 
to live !” 

“Thibs, he is my father,” cried Julia, angrily. 

“Yes, my dear, and there’s no changing it, much as I’ve 
thought about it.” 

Julia stood thinking. 

“ I shall go to him,” she said at last, “ with you, and tell 
him why we have left him. I feel, Thibs, as if I must ask 
him to forgive me, for I am his child.” 

“You wait a bit, my dear, and then talk about forgive- 
ness by and by. You’ve got to stay with your poor mother 
now. Why, if you left her on such an errand as that, what 
would happen if he kept you, and wouldn’t let you come 
back ?” 

Julia’s eyes dilated, and her care-worn face looked paler. 

“ He would not do that.” 

“He and that Crellock would do anything, I believe. 
There, you can’t do that now. You’ve got to sit and watch 
by her.” 

“ Julia!” came in an excited voice from the next room. 

“ There, what did I tell you, my dear?” said Thisbe; and 
she hurried Julia back and closed the door. 

“ They’ll go back and forgive him if he only comes and 
begs them to, and he’ll finish breaking her heart,” said 
Thisbe, as she went down. “Oh, there never was any- 
thing so dreadful as a woman’s weakness when once she 
has loved a man. But go back they shall not if I can help 
it, and what to do for the best I don’t know.” 

Slie went into the little sitting-room, seated herself, and 
began rolling her apron up tightly, as she rocked herself 
to and fro, and all the time kept on biting her lips. 

“ I daren’t,” she said. “ She would never forgive me if 
she knew. No, I couldn’t.” 

She went on, rocking herself about — to and fro. 

“I will — I will do it. It’s right, for it's to save them; 
it’s to save her life, poor dear, and my poor darling from 
misery.” 

She started from her chair, wringing her hands, and 
with her face convulsed, ending by falling on her knees 
with clasped hands. 

“Oh, please, God, no,” she cried, “don’t — don’t suffer 
that - that darling child to be dragged down to such a fate. 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 357 

I couldn’t bear it. I’d sooner die! For ever and ever. 
Amen.” 

She sobbed as she crouched lower and lower, suffering 
an agony of spirit greater than had ever before fallen to her 
lot, and then rose, calm and composed, to wipe her eyes. 

“I’ll do it, and if it's wicked may I be forgiven. I can’t 
bear it, and there’s only that before he puts the last straw 
on.” 

There was a loud tap at the door just then, evidently 
given by a hard set of knuckles. 

“ It’s them!” cried Thisbe, excitedly — “ it’s them!” 

The door was locked and bolted, and she glanced round 
the room as if in search of a weapon. Then going to the 
window, she looked sidewise through the panes, and her 
hard, angry face softened a little, and she opened the win- 
dow, 

“ How did you know I was wanting you to come?” 

Tom Porter’s hard, brown face lit up with delight. 

“Was you?” he cried; “was you, Thisbe? Lor’! how 
nice it looks to see you in a little house like this, and me 
coming to the door ; but you might let me in ! Are you all 
alone?” 

“ Don’t you get running your thick head up against a 
wall, Tom Porter, or you’ll hurt it. And now, look here, 
don’t you get smirking at me again in that way, or off 
you go about your business, and I’ll never look at you 
again !” 

‘ ‘ But, Thisbe, my dear, I only ” 

“ Don’t only, then,” she said, in a fierce whisper; “and 
don’t growl like that, or you’ll frighten them as is up-stairs 
into thinking it’s some one else !” 

“ All right, my lass, all right. Only you are very hard 
on a man. You was hard at King’s Castor, you was harder 
up at Clerkenwell, while now we’re out here rocks is pad- 
ded bulkheads to you!” 

“ I can’t help it, Tom; I’m in trouble, ” said Thisbe, more 
gently. 

“ Are you, my lass? Well, let me pilot you out!” 

“Yes, I think you shall,” she said. “ I wanted you to 
come.” 

“ Now that’s pleasant,” said Tom Porter, smiling; “and 
it does me good, for the way in which I wants to help you, 
Thisbe, is a wonder even to you !” 

“ Oh, yes, I know,” she said, grimly. “ Now then, why 
did you come?” 

“You said you wanted me.” 

“ Yes; but tell me first why you came.” 

“The admiral sent me, to say that he was waiting for 
the missus’ commands, and might he come down to see 


358 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


her on very particular business? He couldn’t write, his 
hand’s all a-shake, and lie ain’t been asleep all night.” 

“ Tell him, and tell Mr. Bayle too, that niy mistress begs 
that she may be left alone for the present. She says she 
will send to them if she wants their help.” 

“Right it is,” said Tom Porter. “Now then, what do 
you want along o’ me?” 

Thisbe’s face hardened, and then grew convulsed, and 
the tears sprung to her eyes. Then it seemed to harden 
up again, and she took hold of Tom Porter’s collar and 
whispered to him quickly. 

“ Phe ew!” whistled Sir Gordon’s man. 

She went on whispering in an excited way. 

“ Yes, I understand,” he said. 

She whispered to him again more earnestly than ever. 

“Yes. Not tell a soul— and only if ’* 

“Yes.” 

“ Only if ” 

“Yes, yes,’’ whispered Thisbe. “Mind, I depend upon 
you.” 

“If Tom Porter’s a living soul,” he replied, “ it’s done. 
But you do mean it?” 

“ 1 mean it!” said Tliisbe Bing. “Now go.” 

“One moment, my lass,” he said. “I’ve been very 
Immble and humble I am; but when this trouble’s over 
and smooth water comes, will you?” 

Thisbe did not answer for a few moments, and then it 
was in a softened voice. 

“ Tom Porter,” she said, “ there’s one up stairs half dead 
with misery, and her darling child suffering more than 
words can tell. My poor heart’s full of them ; don’t ask 
me now.” 

Tom Porter gave his lips a smart slap and hurried down 
the street, while Thisbe Bing closed the window and went 
back to her chair, to rock herself to and fro again, with 
her hands busily rolling and unrolling her apron. 

“ I’ve done it,” she said; “ but it all rests on him. It’s 
his own doing.” 

Then, after a pause: 

“ How long will it be before they find out where we are? 
Not long. Ha!” 

Thisbe Bing passed her hands up and down her bare, 
brawny arms, and her face tightened for the encounter 
she felt must come before long. 


THIS 3IAN^S WIFE. 


359 


CHAPTER XVTII. 

THE BLOW FALLS. 

It was close upon evening before the trouble Tbisbe ex- 
pected came. Tom Porter had been again, tapped at the 
door, and when Tbisbe went to the window he had con 
torted his face in the most horrible manner, closing his left 
eye, and then walked off without a word. 

Thisbe watched till he was out of sight, and then re- 
turned to her chair. 

“He’s to be trusted,” she said to herself. “ It’s a pity 
he wants to marry me. We’re much better as we are; 
and who knows but what he might turn wild? There’s 
only one thing in his favor, he ain’t a handsome man.” 

Now Tom Porter at fifty looked to be about the last per- 
son in the world to turn wild, but Thisbe’ s experiences had 
done much to harden her virgin heart. 

At least a dozen times over she had slipped off her shoes 
and ascended the stairs to find that, utterly exhausted, 
Mrs. Hallam and Julia were sleeping heavily, the latter 
on a chair, with her arms clasped about her mother’s 
neck. 

“ Poor dears!” said Thisbe, as she descended ; “I daren’t 
wake them, but they ought to have a cup of tea.” 

“Ah,” she exclaimed, softly, “ what would she say ? I 
shall never dare to look her in the face again.” 

At last the trouble came. 

‘ ‘ I knew it, ” said Thisbe, as she heard the steps at the 
door. “He was bound to find us. Yes, they’re both 
there. Well, it’s his own work and not mine. What 
shall I do?” 

She rose from her chair, looking very resolute. 

“ I’ll face them bold. It is the only way.” 

She heard the murmur of men’s voices, and then there 
was a rap at the door given with the handle of a whip. 
Thisbe went to the door, unfastened, and threw it open. 

“ What is it?” she said. 

Hallam and Crellock were on the threshold, and the lat- 
ter exclaimed, as soon as he saw her: 

“ I thought so.” 

They stepped in quickly, and Thisbe’s lips tightened 
as she was forced to back before them and the door swung 
to. 

“Where is your mistress?” said Hallam, sharply. 

“Asleep. Worn out and ill,” said Thisbe, stei’nly. 

“ Where’s my daughter?” 

“ With her mother, up-stairs.” 

^‘J’ll soon have an end of tins fooling,” he exclaimed: 


860 THIS MAN'S WIFE. 

and as Thisbe stood with her arms folded, she seemed to 
see a flash of the old look she remembered — the look she 
hated— when they were at Castor years before. 

Hallam threw open the door at the foot of the narrow 
staircase, while Crellock seated himself astride a chair 
with his hat on and beat his boot with his whip. 

“Millicent! Julie!” cried Hallam, fiercely; and there 
were footsteps heard above, for the arrival had awakened 
those who slept. “ Come down at once!” 

He let the door swing to and began to pace the little 
room, muttering to himself, and evidently furious with 
rage at his wife’s desertion. 

Crellock watched him from the corner of his eyes, and 
from time to time unconsciously applied his hand to a 
great discoloration on the cheek. He was evidently quite 
satisfied ; for Hallam needed no egging on to the task, and 
he felt that this episode would hasten his marriage with 
Julia. 

“Are you coming?” cried Hallam, after a few minutes; 
and as he flung back the door that of the bedroom was 
heard to open, and Mrs. Hallam and Julia came down, 
both very pale, but with a firmness in their countenances 
tliat sent a thrill of joy through Thisbe. 

“ There you are, then,” cried Hallam, as they stood be^ 
fore him. “ Ah! I’ve a good mind to ” 

He raised his hand and made a feint as if to strike the 
pale, suffering woman. With a cry of horror, Julia flung 
herself between them, her eyes flashing, her dread gone, 
and in its place indignant horror sweeping away the last 
feeling of pity and compunction for the brutalized man to 
whom she owed her birth. 

“ Now, then,” cried Hallam, “you’ve both had your 
fool’s game out, so put on your bonnets and come home.” 

Mrs. Hallam passed her hand round Julia and remained 
silent. 

“Do you hear?” cried Hallam. “I say, put on your 
things and come home. As for you, madam, you shall 
have a home of your own, and a husband, before you know 
where you are. Come— stir!” he cried, with a stamp. 

“This is my home,” said Mrs. Hallam, sternly. 

“What!” 

“ Robert Hallam, the last thread that bound me to you 
is broken,” she continued, in a calm, judicial voice. “ We 
are separated forever.” 

“You’re mad,” cried Hallam, with a laugh. “Come, 
no nonsense of this kind ! Don’t make a scene, for I’m not 
in the humor to put up with much. Come out of this 
house, or ” 

He made a step or two toward the doox’, for Thisbe had 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


thrown it open, having seen Bayle pass the window with 
Sir Gordon. Then he seized the door to fling it in their 
faces; but Thisbe held it firmly, and they walked in, Hal- 
1am himself giving way. 

“ Coward !” snarled Crellock in his ear, as he started up, 
whip in hand. 

“Mrs. Hallam,” said Sir Gordon, “ you must forgive this 
intrusion. I am sure we are wanted here.” 

“ Wanted here!” cried Hallam, savagely; “no, you are 
not wanted here. I’ll have no more interferences from 
such as you; you’ve both been the curse of my life.” 

Sir Gordon turned upon him with a calm look of disgust 
and contempt, which at another time would have made 
him quail ; but fevered with brandy as he was, the effect 
was to make him more beside himself. 

“ As you are here, both of you, let me tell you this: That 
I don’t kick you out because one of you is a weak, dodder 
ing old idiot, the other— oh, his cloth must protect Mr. 
Bayle. Now what do you want to know?” 

“ Be calm, Julia,” whispered Bayle. “No harm shall 
befall either of you.” 

Crellock advanced menacingly, but Sir Gordon inter- 
posed. 

“ Mrs. Hallan, as your father’s old friend, I must inter- 
fere for your protection now.” 

“ Must you?” cried Hallam, fiercely, “ then I tell you that 
you won’t. This is my house, taken by my wife. That is 
my wife. That is my child, and in a few days she will be 
the wife of this gentleman, my oldest friend. Now go ! 
Millicent— Julie— get on your things and come, or by all 
that’s holy, we’ll drag you through the streets.” 

Julia clung to Bayle, and turned her flushed face to him 
as if asking help ; while, with a look of calm contempt, he 
patted the hand he held, and glanced at Mrs. Hallam, for 
something seemed to warn him that the crisis had ar- 
rived. 

“ I have told you, Eobert Hallam,” she said, in a calm, 
firm voice that grew in strength as she went on, “that 
from this hour we are separated, never to be man and wife 
again. I clung to you in all a woman’s proud faith in her 
husband. I loved you as dearly as woman could love. 
When you were condemned of all, I defended you, and 
believed you honest.” 

“ Bah 1” he exclaimed ; “ enough of this!” and he took a 
step forward, but quailed before her gaze. 

“ You crushed my love ! You made me your wretched, 
innocent tool and slave when you brought me here, 
and at last you brutally told me all the cruel truth. 
Even then, heart-broken, I clung to you, and suffered in 

W ' ' 


m 


THIS MAN'S WIFE. 


silence. God knows how I tried to bring you to peni- 
tence and a better life ! I forgive all for the sake of our 
child, and in my love for her I would have gone on bear- 
ing all!” 

“ Have you nearly done?” he said, mockingly. 

“Nearly,” she said, in the same firm, clear tones; and 
she seemed to tower above him, pale and noble of 
aspect, while he, drink-brutalized and blotched, seemed to 
shrink. 

“I say I would have borne everything, even if you 
liad beaten me like a dog. But when— oh, my God, judge 
between us and forgive me if 1 have done wrong — 
when I am called upon to see my innocent child dragged 
down by you to the fate of being the wife of the villain 
who has been your partner in all your crimes, my soul 
revolts, and I say, from this hour all between us is at an 
end I” 

“And I say,” he yelled, “that you are my wife, this 
my child, and you shall obey me! Come; I am master 
here !” 

He made a snatch at her arm, but she raised it before 
him, with outstretched palm, and her voice rang out with 
a cry that made him shrink and cower. 

“ Stop !” 

There was a moment’s utter silence, broken by the softly 
heard distant tramp of feet. 

“ Husband no longer, father of my child no more. Eob- 
ert Hallam, you are my convict servant ! I discharge you ! 
Leave this house !” 

Hallam took a step back, literally stunned by the words 
of the outraged woman, who for so long a time had been 
his slave, while Bayle exhaled a long, sighing breath as if 
relieved of some terrible weight. 

For a time no one spoke ; but all turned from gazing on 
the prominent figure of that group to Hallam, who stood 
clinching and unclinching his hands, and gasping as if try- 
ing to recover from the shock he had received. 

He essayed to speak as he glared at Mrs. Hallam, and 
scowled at her as if each look were an arrow to wound and 
bring her to his feet, hurnbled and appealing as of old ; but 
the arrows glanced from the armor of indignant maternal 
love with which she was clothed, and, drawn up to her 
full height, scornful and defiant as she seemed, her look 
absolutely made him quail. 

Tramp — tramp— tramp— tramp. 

The regular march of disciplined men coming nearer and 
nearer, but heard by none within that room, as Crellock, 
with a course laugh, bent forward, and whispered in his 
companion’s ear: 


THIS MAN^S WIFH. 


363 


“ Why, man, are you going to submit to this?” 

“No,” roared Hallam, as if his gang companion's words 
had broken a spell. “No. The woman’s mad. Julia, you 
are my child. Come here !” 

Julia met the eyes that were fixed fiercely upon her and 
stepped forward. 

Bayle tried to arrest her, but she raised her hand to keep 
him back, and then placed it on her father’s arm, trem- 
bling and looking white. Then she reached up, and kissed 
him solemnly upon the cheek. 

“There, gentlemen,” he cried mockingly. “You see. 
Now, wife — my wife, come to your convict servant; come 
— home.” 

He passed his arm round Julia’s waist, and signed to 
Orel lock to come forward, but his child glided from his 
grasp. 

“ Good-bye — father— good- bye— forever !” 

He made a snatch at her hand ; but she had gone, and 
was clinging to Bayle. 

Hallam uttered a fierce oath, and then listened, stopped 
short, with his head wrenched round to gaze at the door. 
For at that moment the tramp of feet reached the entrance, 
and a voice rang out : 

“Halt!” 

There was the rattle of muskets on the path, and as, 
ghastly of face, and with starting eyes, Robert Hallam saw 
in imagination the interior of the prison, the grim convict 
dress, the chains, and the lash, the door was thrown 
open, and Captain Otway entered, followed by a sergeant 
and a file of men, a squad remaining outside, drawn up be- 
fore the house. 

Otwaj* glanced round; his brow furrowed, and his lips 
tightened, as his eyes fell on Mrs. Hallam and her child. 

It was but a momentary emotion. Then the stern mili- 
tary precision asserted itself, and he said, quickly; 

“ Robert Hallam, No. 874, assigned servant, I arrest you 
for breaking the terms of your ticket-of -leave. Sergeant, 
remove this man.” 

Two men stepped to Hallam’s side on the instant. 

“ Curse you!” he yelled, as he started forward to reach 
his wife ; but a strong hand on either arm stayed him. 
“ This is your work!” 

She shook her head slowly, and Julia darted to her 
side, for the firmness that had sustained her so far was 
failing fast. 

“ No,” she said, slowly; “ it is no work of mine.” 

“Then I have to thank my dear friend the baronet 
here,” he cried, with a vindictive look at Sir Gordon. 

“ NOj Hallarn. I have kiiown for months past that yoiz 


864 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


have been living in wild excess on the money you stole 
from me, but I spared you for others’ sake.” 

“ Oh, I see, then,” cried Hallam, turning to Bayle; “it 
was you— you beggarly professor of ” 

“Stay your reproaches,” cried Bayle, sternly. “ I could 
not have taken steps against you had I wished.” 

“If it’ll make it easier for Mr. Hallam to know who 
gave information against him,” said a voice at the door, 
“it was me.” 

“Tom Porter!” cried Sir Gordon. 

“Ay, ay, sir.” 

“Kemove your prisoner,” said Captain Otway, sternly. 

Ciellock stepped forward with a blustering swagger. 

“ Am I included in this?” he said. 

“No, sir,” said Captain Otway, sternly. “I have no 
orders about you — at present. Take my advice and go.” 

Crellock made a step to go to Julia, but she shrunk from 
him in horror, and the next minute he was literally forced 
out by the soldiers with their prisoner, the door closed, and 
a low, wailing voice arose: 

“ Julia!” 

“Mother, dear mother, I am here,” cried Julia, kneeling 
and supporting the stricken woman on her breast. 

“Hold me, my darling, tightly,” she moaned. “It is 
growing dark— is this the end?” 

CHAPTER XIX. 

THE GOOD THAT WAS IN HIM. 

“Hi! Sir Gordon!” 

The old gentleman turned as a big- bearded man cantered 
up over the rough land by the track, some six months 
after the prison gates had closed upon Robert Hallam. 

“Oh, it’s you!’* said Sir Gordon, shading his eyes from 
the blazing sun. “Well?” 

“Don’t be rough on a fellow. Sir Gordon. I’ve been a 
big blackguard, I know, but somehow I never had a chance 
from the first. I want to do the right thing now.” 

“ Humph! pretty well time,” said Sir Gordon. “ Well, 
what is it?” 

The man hesitated, as if struggling with shame, and 
thought himself weak, but he struck his boot heavily with 
his whip, and took off his broad felt hat. 

“ I’ll do it,” he said sharply, to himself. Then aloud, 
“Look here, sir, I’m sick of it.” 

“ Humph! then you’d better leave it,” said the old man, 
with an angry sneer. “ Go and give yourself up, and join 
your old companion.” 

“That’s rough!” said Crellock, with a grim smile, 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 365 

“ How hard you good people can be on a fellow when he's 
down!” 

“ What have you ever done to deserve anything else, 
you scoundrel?” cried Sir Gordon, fiercely. “ Twenty thou- 
sand pounds of my money you and your rogue of a com- 
panion had, and I’m tramping through this blazing sun, 
wliile you ride a blood-horse!” 

“ Take the horse, then,” said Crellock, good humoredly. 
“ 1 don’t want it!” 

“You know I’m too old to ride it, you dog, or you 
wouldn’t offer it.” 

“ There, you see when a fellow does want to turn over a 
new leaf you good people won’t let him.” 

“ Won’t let him? Where’s your book and where’s your 
leaf?” 

“Book? Oh, I’m the book, Sir Gordon, and you won’t 
listen to what’s on the leaf.” 

Sir Gordon seated himself on a great tussock of soft 
grass, took out his gold-rimmed glasses, put them on de- 
liberately, and stared up at the great, fine-looking, bronzed 
man. 

“ Ha!” he said at last. “ You, a man who can talk like 
that, why, you might have been a respectable member of 
society, and liere you are ” 

“ Out on ticket in a convict settlement. Say it, Sir Gor- 
don. Well, what wonder? It all began with Hallam when 
I was a weak young fool, and thought him, with his good 
looks and polished ways, a sort of hero. I got into trouble 
with him ; he escaped because I wouldn’t tell tales, and 
I had to bear the brunt, and after that I never had a 
chance.” 

“ Ah, there was a nice pair of you.” 

Crellock groaned, and seemed about to turn away, but 
tlie man’s good genius had him tightly gripped that day, 
and he smiled again. 

“ Don’t be hard on me. Sir Gordon. I want to say some- 
thing to you. I was going to your friend, Mr. Christie 
Bayle, but— I couldn’t do that.” 

Sir Gordon watched him curiously. 

“You haven’t turned bush-ranger, then? You’re not 
going to rob me?” 

“ No ” said Crellock, grimly. “Haven’t I robbed you 
enough ?” 

“Humph! Well?” 

“ Ah, that’s better,” said Crellock; “now you’ll listen to 
me. The fact is, sir, I’ve been thinking, since I’ve been 
living all alone, that forty isn’t too old for a man to begin 
again.” 

“ Too old? No, man. Why, I’m— there, nevermind how 


966 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


old. Older than that, and I’m going to begin again. 
Forty ! why, you’re a boy.” 

“Well, Sir Gordon, I’m going to begin the square, I 
gave up the drink because— there, never mind why,” he 
said, huskily. “I had a reason, and now I’m going to 
make a start.” 

“ Well, go and do it, then. Whac are you going to do?” 

“Oh, get up the country, sir, stockman or shepherd- 
ing.” 

“Wolfing, you mean, sir.” 

“ Oh, no, i don’t. Sir Gordon,” said Crellock, laughing. 
“ There’s plenty of work to be got, and I like horses and 
cattle better than I do men now.” 

“Well, look here,” said Sir Gordon, testily; “I don't 
believe you.” 

“Eh?” 

“I don’t believe you, sir. If you mean’t all this you’d 
have gone and begun it instead of talking. There, be off. 
I’m hot and tired, and want to be alone.” 

Crellock frowned again, but his good genius gave him 
another grip of the slioulder and the smile came back. 

“ You don’t understand me yet. Sir Gordon,” he said. 

“No, I never shall.” 

“ I wanted to tell you, sir, that since Hallam was taken, 
I’ve been living up in the Gully House. I’d nowhere else 
to go, and I was desperate like. I thought every day 
that you or somebody would come and take possession, 
but no one did. Law seems ail anyhow, out here. And 
the days went on. This horse had been down— sprained 
leg from a bad jump.” 

“Confound your horse, sir! I don’t want to hear your 
stable twaddle,” cried Sir Gordon. 

Crellock seem to swallow a lump in his throat, and 
paused, but he went on after awhile. 

“ The poor brute was a deal hurt, and tending and ban- 
daging his leg seemed to do me good like. Then I used to 
send one of the blacks to town for food.” 

“ And drink?” said Sir Gordon, acidlj^ 

“No; for tea; and I’ve lived up there with the horses 
ever since. There’s—” 

“ Well, why don’t you go on, man?” 

“Give me time,” said Crellock. who had stopped short. 
“There’s Miss Hallam ’s mare there, too. She was very 
fond of that mare,” he added, huskily. 

Sir Gordon’s eyes seemed half shut as he watched the 
man and noted the changes in his voice. 

“ Well, sir, I’ve lived there six months now. and no- 
body has taken any notice. There’s the furniture and the 


This man^s wife. 


867 


house, and there’s seven or eight hundred pounds left yet 
of what Mrs. Hallam brought over.” 

“Well?” 

“Well! why, Sir Gordon, it’s all yours, of course, and 
I’ve been waiting for weeks to have this talk to you. I 
couldn’t come to the cottage.” 

“ Why not ?” 

Crellock shook his head. 

“No, I couldn’t come here. I’ve lain in wait for you 
when you were going down to your boat for a sail, but 
that Tom Porter was always with you; and I didn’t want 
to write. I didn’t think you’d come if I did. You’d have 
thought it was a plant, and set the authorities after me, 
and I didn’t want that, because I’ve had enough of con- 
vict life.” 

“ Humph! Well, what do you want me to do?” 

“ Come and take possession, Sir Gordon, and have the 
house taken care of. There’s her mare there, you see. 
Then there’s the money; no one but Hallam and me knows 
where it’s hidden. I shouldn’t like the place to fall into 
anybody’s hands.” 

“But you? You want to give all this up to me?” 

“ Of course, sir. It’s all yours. It was the bank money 
that bought everything.” 

“ A.nd what are you going to do?” 

“ Oh, I’m sick of it all, sir, and I want to start clear. I 
shall go up the country. I think I’m a clever stockman.” 

“ And you give up everything?” 

The man set his teeth. 

“ Yes, sir,” he said, firmly, as he turned and patted the 
horse’s neck as it stood close by , cropping the tender shoots 
of a bush ; and it raised its head and laid ics muzzle in his 
hand. “I should like you to see that Joey here had a 
good master. I threw him down once, and doctoring 
seemed to make him fond of me. He’s a good horse. It’s 
a pity you’re too old to ride.” 

“Confound you! how dare you?” cried Sir Gordon. 

“I’m not too old to ride, sir. I— I ” He started up 

with his lip quivering. “Here! here! sit down, Crellock. 
Confound you, sir, I never met with such a scoundrel in 
all my life!” 

Crellock looked at him curiously, ahd then, throwing 
the bridle on the ground, he sat down, while Sir Gordon 
paced up and down in a quick, fidgety walk. 

“ Have you got anything more to say, sir?” he cried at 
last. 

Crellock was silent for a few moments, and then, draw- 
ing a long breath, he said : 

“ How is Mrs. Hallam, sir?” 


868 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


“ Dying,” said Sir Gordon, shortly. “ It is a matter of 
days. Well, is that all?” 

There was another interval before Crellock spoke. 

“Will you take a message from me, sir, to those up 
yonder?” 

“Yes.” 

The words would not come for some moments, and when 
they did come they were very husky. 

“ I want you to ask Mrs. Hallam to forgive me my share 
of the past.” 

“ Is that all?” 

“ No, Sir Gordon. Tell Miss Julia that for her sake I 
did give up the drink ; that I’m going up now into the 
bush; that for her sake I’m doing all this; and that I shall 
never forget the gentle face that bent over me outside the 
prison walls.” 

He turned to go, and had gone a score of yards, walk- 
ing quickly, but with the horse following, when Sir Gor- 
don called out: 

“Stop!” 

Crellock stood still, and Sir Gordon walked up to him 
slowly. 

“You are right, Crellock,” he said, in a quiet, changed 
tone. “ I believe you. You never had a chance.” 

He held out his hand, which the other did not take. 

“ Shake hands, man.” 

“I am a convict, sir,” said Crellock, proudly. 

“ Shake hands,” cried Sir Gordon, firmly; and he took 
the strong, brown hand, slowly raised. 

“ There is my forgiveness for the past — and— yes— that 
of the truest, sweetest woman I ever knew. Now, as to 
your future: do as you say; go up country and take up 
land — new land in this new country, and begin your new 
life. I shall touch nothing at the Gully House — place, 
horses, money, they are yours.” 

“Mine?” exclaimed Crellock. 

“Yes, I have more than ever I shall want; and as to 
that money which I had always looked upon as lost, if it 
makes you into what you say you will strive to be, it is 
the best investment I ever made.” 

“But ” 

“Good-bye!” . 


CHAPTER XX. 

OVERHEARD. 

Sir Gordon Bourne looked ten years younger as he 
walked toward the cottage on the bluff. The hill was 
steep to climb, and the sun was torrid in its heat; but he 


THIS 31 AN 'S WIFE. 


forgot the discomfort and climbed higher and higher, till 
he reached the rough fence that surrounded the grounds, 
and there stood, with his hat off, wiping his brow and gaz- 
ing at the glorious prospect of sea and land. 

“I feel almost like a good fairy this morning,” he said, 
with a laugh. “Ah! how beautiful it all is, and what a 
pity that such an Eden should be made the home of Eng- 
land’s worst.” 

He opened the rough gate and entered the grounds that 
were admirably kept by a couple of convict servants, 
Avatched over by Tom Porter, crossed a patch of lawn, and 
was about to go up to the house; but a pleasantly placed 
rustic seat beneath the shelter of a gum-tree, and nearly 
surrounded by Austral shrubs, emitting their curious 
aromatic scent in the hot sunshine, tempted him to rest; 
and in a few minutes, overcome by the exertions of the 
morning, his head bowed down upon his breast, and he 
dropped into a light doze, from which he was aroused by 
voices— one low, deep and earnest, the other low and deep, 
but silvery and sweet, and with a tender ring in it that 
brought up memories of an old, Ioav -roofed drawing-room 
in the quiet Lincolnshire town; and a curious dimness 
came over the old man’s eyes. 

The speakers were behind him, hidden by a veil of soft 
gra5"-green leaves; and as Sir Gordon involuntarily 
listened, one voice said, in trembling tones. 

“ I dared not even look forward to such an end.” 

“ But ever since others began to set me thinking of such 
things I always waited ; for I used to say, some day he 
will ask me to be his wife.” 

“ And you loved me, Julia?” 

“Loved you? Did you not know?” 

“ But like this?” 

“Like this? Always ; for when you came, all trouble 
seemed to go, and I felt that I was safe.” 

The voices paused, and Sir Gordon sat up, leaning upon 
his stick and thinking aloud. 

“ Well, I have always hoped it would be so— no, not al- 
ways ; and now it seems as if he were going to rob me of 
a child.” 

He sat gazing straight before him, seeing nothing of the 
soft blue sea and sky, nor the many shades of gray and 
green that rolled before his eyes, for they were filled with 
the face of Julia Hallam. 

“ Yes,” he said at last; “why not ? Ah, Bayle! where 
is Julie?” 

“ With her mother, now. Sir Gordon ” 

“Hush! I know. I’ve naught to say but this; Go(J 
bless you both J” 


S70 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

REST. 

There had been some talk of a speedy return to the old 
country ; but the doctor shook his head. 

“ Let her live her few hours in rest and peace,” he said. 
“ It would be madness to attempt such a thing.” 

And so all thought of the journey home was set aside, 
and Mrs. Hallam was borne up to Sir Gordon’s house. 

In her weakness she had protested, but Sir Gordon had 
quietly said: 

“ Am I your father’s oldest friend?” And then: “Have 
I not a right to insist— for Julia’s sake?” 

She yielded, and the cottage for the next few months be- 
came their home, Bayle going down into the town and 
spending much of his time among the convicts, and seeing 
a good deal of the Otways. 

“ Tliat’s how it’s going to be,” said Mrs. Otway. “ I al- 
ways said so, Jack.” 

“ Nonsense! He’s old enough to be her father.” 

“ Perhaps so in years, but he’s about the youngest man 
in his ways I ever knew; while she, like all girls who have 
gone through much trouble in life, is old and staid for her 
age.” 

Time proves all things,” said Captain Otway. “ Phil 
won’t get her, that’s certain.” 

“ No; that’s all over, and he is not breaking his heart 
about her, in spite of all the fuss at first. Well, I’m glad 
for some things ; I shall be able to look Lady Eaton in the 
face.” 

“ A task you would very well have fulfilled, even if he 
had married Julia Hallam. It would take a very big Lady 
Eaton to frighten you, my dear. Been up to see Mrs, Hal- 
lam to-day ?” 

Mrs. Otway nodded. 

“ No hope ?” 

“ Not the slightest,” said Mrs. Otway, quietly. Then, 
after a pause, “ Jack,” she said, “ do you know, I think it 
would be wrong to wish her to live. ,What has she to live 
for?” 

“ Child -her child’s husband — their children.” 

Mrs. Otway shook her head. 

“No; I don’t think she would ever be happy again. 
Poor thing! if ever woman’s heart was broken, hers was. 
I don’t like going up to see her, but I feel obliged. There 
are so few women here whom one like her would care to 
see. Ah, it’s a sad case !” 

“ Does she seem to suffer much?” 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. •dll 

“She does not seem to, but who knows what a quiet, 
patient creature will bear without making a sign ?” 

The months glided on, and still Millicent Hallam lingered 
as if loath to leave the beautiful world spread before her 
window, and on which she loved to gaze. 

.She had half-expected it, but it was still a surprise when 
Julia whispered to her, as she sat beside her couch, that 
she was going to be the wife of Christie Bayle. 

Mrs. Hallam's eyes dilated, and she turned slowly to her 
child. 

“He has asked you to be his wife?” she said, in her low, 
sweet voice. 

“No, mother,” said Julia, as she laid her head beside 
her and gazed dreamily before her; “I don’t think he 
asked me ” 

“But, my child — you said ” 

“Yes, mother dear,” said Julia, innocently; “I hardly 
know how it came about. It has always seemed to me 
that some day I should be his wife. Why, I have always 
loved him! How could I help it?” 

Mrs. Hallam laid her hand upon her child’s glossy hair 
and closed her eyes, wondering in herself at the simple, 
truthful words she had heard. 

One moment she felt pained, qnd as if it ought not to 
be ; the next, a flood of joy seemed to send a wave through 
her breast as she thought of the days when Julia would be 
alone in the world ; and in whose cliarge would she rather 
have left her than in that of Christie Bayle? 

The battle went on at intervals for days ; but at last 
it was at an end, and she lay back calmly as she said to 
herself : 

“ Yes, it is right. Now I can be at rest.” 

Another month passed. Dr. Woodhouse came, as was 
liis custom, more as a friend than from the belief that his 
skill could be of any avail. 

And one particular morning he stopped to lunch, and 
went up again afterward to see Mre. Hallam, staying some 
little time. He left Julia with her, and came down to 
where Sir Gordon was seated on the lawn with Bayle. 

The latter started up, as he saw the doctor’s face, and 
his eyes asked him mutely for an explanation of his look. 

The doctor answered him as mutely, while Sir Gordon 
saw it, and rose to stand agitatedly by his chair. 

“Bayle,” he whispered, “ I thought I was prepared, but 
now it has come, it seems very hard to bear.” 

Bayle glided away into the house, to go up -stairs, meet- 
ing Thisbe on the way, wringing her hands, and blinded 
with her tears. 


372 


THIS MAN^S WIFE. 

“ I couldn’t bear to stop, sir— I couldn’t bear to stop,” 
she whispered. “It’s come — it’s come at last.” 

Bayle entered the room softly, steeling his heart to bear 
with her he loved some agonizing scene. But he paused 
on the threshold, almost startled by the look of peace upon 
the wasted face, full in the bright, southern light. 

She smiled at him as she saw him there ; and as he crossed 
the room and knelt by her side, she laid her hand in his 
and feebly took Julia’s and placed them together. 

“ The rest is coming now,” she said, softly. 

Julia burst into a passion of weeping. 

“ Mother! mother! if you could but live!” she sobbed. 

“Live? No, my darling, no. I am so tired — so worn 
and weary. I should faint by the way.” 

She closed her eyes, smiling^at them tenderly, and for the 
space of an hour they watched her sleeping peacefully and 
well. 

And as Julia sat there with her hands clasped in Christie 
Bayle’s strong palms, a feeling of hopefulness and rest, to 
which she had long been a stranger, came into her heart. 
The doctor had once said that there might be a change for 
the better if his patient’s mind were at rest, and that rest 
seemed to have come at last. 

The afternoon had glided away, and the fast sinking sun 
had turned the clear sky to gold ; and as the great orb of 
day descended to where a low bank of clouds lay upon the 
horizon, it seemed to glide quickly from their view. The 
room, but a few moments before lit up by the refulgent 
glow, darkened and became gloomy; but as the glorious 
light streamed up in myriad rays from behind the clouds, 
there was still a soft flush upon the sick woman’s face. 

A wondrous stillness seemed to have come upon the 
watchers; for the hope that had been warm in Julia’s 
breast was now chilled as if by some unseen presence, and 
she turned her frightened eyes from her mother to Bayle, 
and back. 

“ Christie!” she cried, suddenly. “ Oh, help!” 

“Hush!” 

One softly spoken, solemn sounding word, as Christie 
Bayle held fast the hand of his affianced wife, and together 
they sunk upon their knees. 

The glowing purple clouds opened slowly, and once 
more, as from the dazzling, golden gates of the great city 
on the further shore, a wondrous light streamed forth, fill- 
ing the chamber and brightening the features of the dying 
woman. 

The pain and agony of the past, with their cruel lines, 
had gone, and the beautiful countenance shone with that 
look of old that he who knelt there knew so well. But it 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


373 


was etherealized in its sweet calm, its restfulness, as the 
still, bright eyes gazed calmly and trustfully far out to 
sea. 

Julia’s fingers tightened on her mother’s chilling hand 
as she gazed with awe at the rapt look and gentle smile 
that flickered for a few moments on the trembling lips. 

Then, as the clouds closed in once more, and the room 
grew dark and chill, the passionate yearning cry of the 
young heart burst forth in that one word “ Mother!” 

But there was no response, no word spoken, save that, 
as they knelt there in the ever- darkening room, Christie 
Bayle’s lips parted to whisper, in tones so low that they 
were like a sigh. 

‘ ‘ Come unto Me all ye that are weary and are heavy- 
laden, and I will give you rest.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE doctor’s garden. 

The place the same. Not a change visible in all those 
years. The old church, with its mossed tiles and lichened 
walls ; the familiar tones of the chiming clock, that gave 
notice of the passing hours ; and at the top of the market- 
place, the old bank — Dixon’s Bank — at whose door that 
drab-looking man stood talking for a few minutes— talking 
to Mr. Trampleasure before going home to feed his fishes 
in the evening light and then take Mrs. Thickens up to the 
doctor’s house to spend the evening. 

And that evening. The garden unchanged in the midst 
of change. The old golden glow coming through the clump 
of trees in the west beyond the row of cucumber- frames — 
those trees that Dr. Luttrell told his wife he must cut down 
because they took off so much of the afternoon sun. But he 
had not cut them down. He would as soon have thought 
of lopping off his right hand. 

Everything in that garden, and about and in tliat house, 
seemed the same at the first glance, but there had been 
changes in Kings Castor in the course of years. 

There was a stone, for instance, growing very much 
weather-stained, relating the virtues of one Daniel Gemp; 
and there was the same verse cut in the stone that had 
been sent round on the funeral cards with some pieces of 
sponge-(jake, one of which cards was framed in the parlor 
at Gorringe’s, his crony, who still cut up cloth, as of 
old. 

Mrs. Pinet, too, had passed away, and the widow who 
now had the house, and let lodgings, painted her pots 
green instead of red, and robbed the dull old place of one 
bit of color. 


874 


THIS MAN'S WIFE, 


But the doctor’s garden was the same ; and so thought 
Christie Bayle, as he stood in the gathering gloom six 
months after his return to England, and shortly after his 
acceptance of the vicarage of King’s Castor at his old 
friend’s wish. 

There were the old sweet scents of the dewy earth, that 
familiar one of the lately cut grass ; there was the old hum 
of a beetle winging its way round and round one of the 
trees; and there before him were the open French win- 
dows, and the veranda, showing the lit-up drawing-room 
furniture, the old globe lamps, and the candles on the 
piano just the same. 

Had he been asleep and dreamed? and was he still the 
boyish curate who fell in love and failed? 

Yes; there was little Miss Heathery going to the piano 
and laying down the reticule bag, with the tail of her 
white handkerchief hanging out. And there was Thick- 
ens, with his hands resting on his drab trousers ; and there 
was the doctor and little, pleasant Mrs Luttrell, going from 
one to the other and staying longest by, and unable to 
keep her trembling hands off, that tall, dark, beautiful 
woman, who smiled down upon her in answer to each 
caress. 

No change, and yet how changed ! How near the bottom 
of the hill that little, gray, old man, and that rosy, little, 
white-haired woman ! How querulous and thin sounded 
Mrs. Thickens’ voice in her old, trivial troubadour Heathery 
song ! The years had gone, and in spite of its likeness to 
the past, what a void there was^absent faces ! 

No ; that carefully dressed old gentleman was half be- 
hind the curtain, and he has risen to cross to the doctor, 
pausing to pat the tall, graceful woman on the arm, and 
nod at her affectionately by the way. There is another 
familiar face, too, that of Thisbe in a most wonderful cap, 
carrying in tea to hand round, and Tom Porter obediently 
“following in his commodore’s wake ” — his own words — 
and handing bread and butter, sugar and cream. 

And still Christie Bayle gazes on, half expecting to 
see the tall, dark, handsome man who cast so deep a 
shadow across so many lives ; but instead of that the gmee- 
ful figure that is so like Milicent Hallam of the past ap- 
pears framed in the window, to stand there gazing out into 
the dark garden. 

Then she looks back sharply to answer some remark made 
in the little drawing-room, and looks quickly out^gain with 
hands resting on the door. It is very dark out there, and 
her eyes are accustomed to the light of the drawing-room ; 
but in a minute or so she sees that which she fought, and 


THIS MAN^S WIFE, 


375 


half runs over the dewy lawn to where she is clasped in 
two strong arms. 

“ You truant!” she says, playfully, as she nestles close 
to him. “ Come in and sing; we want you to make the 
place complete. Why, what are you thinking about?” 

‘ ‘ I was thinking of the past, Julie,” he says. 

She looks up at him in the starlight ; and he gazes down 
in her glistening eyes. 

“ The past? Let me think of it, too. Are we not one?” 

And as they stand together the little English interior 
before them seems to fade away, and the light they gaze 
upon to be the glowing sunshine of the far South, blazing 
down in all its glory upon the grassy grave and glistening 
stone that marks the resting place of This Man’s Wife. 


[THE END.] 







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marks the women of our households when they undertake to make their 
homes bright and cheery. Nothing deters them. Their weary work may 
be as long as the word which begins this paragraph, but they prove their 
regard for decent homes by their indefatigability. What a pity that any 
of them should add to their toil by neglecting to use Sapolio. It reduces 
the labor of cleaning and scouring at least one-half. 10c, a cake. Sold by 
all grocers. 





Dr. a. W. Thompson, Northampton, Mass., says; “I have tested the 
Gluten Suppositories, and consider them valuable, as indeed, 1 expected 
from the excellence of their theory.” 


Dr. Wm. Too Helmuth declares the Gluten Suppositories to be “ the 
best remedy for constipation which I have ever prescribed.” 

‘‘As Sancho Panza said of sleep, so say I of your Gluten Suppositories ; 
God bless the man who invented them!”— B. L. Ripley, Burlington, Vt. 

“ I prescribe the Gluten Suppositories almost daily in my practice and 
am often astonished at the permanent results obtained.” — J. Monteort 
Schley, M.D., Professor Physical Diagnosis Woman's Medical College, 
New York City. 

HEALTH FOOD CO., 75 4th Avenue, N. T. 



THE BEST 

I WASHING COMPOUND 

EVSR INVENTED, 

No I^ady, IWlarried or 
Single, Ricli or Poor, 
Housekeeping or 
Boarding, will ke 
witliout it after teist* 
ing its utility, 

Sold by all iirst-elass 
Grocers,l>ut beware o^ 
worthless imitatious. 


Electric* Corsets*and* Belts. 

Corsets, $1.00, $1.50, $2.00, $3.00. Belts, $3.00. Nursing Corset, 
Price, $1.50. Abdominal Corset, Price, $3.00. 

Seventeen tfcousand families in the City of New York alone are now wearing 
them daily. Every Man and Women, well or ill, should daily 
wear either the Corset or Belt. 

OUR CORSETS ARE DOUBLE STITCHED AND WILL NOT RIP. 

If you have a7ty pain, ache, or ill-feeling from any cause, if you seem “ pretty well,” yet lack 
energy and do not “feel up to the mark,” if you suffer from disease, we beg you to at once try these 
remarkable curatives. They cannot and do not injure like medicine. Always doing good, never 
harm. There is no shock or sensation felt in wearing them. Every 'mail brifi^s ns testimonials 
like the Jbllowing- : 

We guarantee safe delivery into 
your hands. Renjit in Post-Office 
Money-order, Draft, Check, or in Cur- 
rency by Registered Letter at our 
risk. In ordering kindly mention 
Lovell's Library, and state exact 
size of corset usually worn. Make 
yk all remittances payable to GEO. 
A. SCOTT, 842 BROADWAY, 
NEW York. 

N. B. — Each article is 
V ly stamped with the English 
^ coat-of-aims, and the 
name of the Proprie- 
tors, THE PALL 
MALL ELECT- 
V RI C 
TION. 


THE CELEBRATED DR. W. A. 
HAMMONd, of New York, forniErly 
Surgeon-General of the U. S. Army, 
lately lectured upon this subject, and 
advised all meaical men to make 
trial of these agencies, describing at 
the same time most remarkable 
cures he had made, even in cases 
which would seem hopeless. WNr 

The Corsets do not differ 
in appearance from those 
usually worn. They are 
elegant in shape and 
finish, made after the 
best French pattern, 
and warranted satisfac- 
tory in every respect. 

Our Belts for both gents 
and ladies are the gen- 
uine Dr. Scott’s and are 
reliable. 

The prices are as 
follows: $1, $1.50, $2 
and $3 for the Cor- 
sets, and $3 each 
for the Belts. The 
accompanying cut 
represents our No. 

2, or $1.50 Corset. 

We have also a 
beautiful French shap- 
ed Sateen Corset at $3, 
also a fine Sateen Abdom- 
inal Corset at $3, and a short 
Sateen Corset at $2. The $1 
and $1.60 goods are made of 
fine Jean, elegant in shape, 
strong and durable. Nur- 
slngCorsets, $1.50; Miss- 
es, 15c. All are double 
stitched. Gents’ and 
Ladies’ Belts, $3 each ; 

Ladies’ Abdominal 
Supporter, an invalu- 
able article, $12. They 
are sent out in a hand- 
some box, accompanied by a 
silver-plated compass by which 
the Electro- Magnetic influence 
can be tested. If you cannot 
find them in your dry goods 
store, remit to us direct. We 
will send either kind to any 
address, post-paid, on receipt 
of price, with 20 cents added 
for packing and postage. 



ASSOCIA- 


Hollis Centre, Me. 

1 suffered severely from back 
trouble for years and found no 
relief till I wore Dr. Scott’s Elec- 
tric Corsets. They cuv^id nte, 
and I would not be without 
them. Mrs. H. D. BENSO^'. 


Memphis, Tennessee 
Dr. Scott’s Electric Corse+s 
have given me much relief. I 
suffered four years with breast 
trouble, without finding any 
benefit from other remedies. 
They are invaluable. 

Mrs. Jas. Campbell. 


Chambersburg, Pa. 

I found Dr. Scott’s Electric Cor- 
sets possessed miraculous power 
iustiniulatingand invigorating my 
enfeebled body, and the Hair 
Brush had a magic effect on iny 
scalp. Mrs. T. E. Snyder, 
Fancy Goods Dealer. 


De Witt, N. Y. 

I have an invalid sis- 
ter who had not been 
dressed for a year. 
She has worn Dr. 
Scott’s Electric 
Corsets for two 
weeks, and is now 
able to be dressed 
and sit up most ot 
the time. 

Melva j. Doe. 


Newark, N. Y. 

Dr. Scott’s Electric Corsets 
have entirely cured me of mus- 
cular rheumatism, and also ot 
severe case of headache. 

MRS. L. C. Spencer. 


Dr. Scott’s Electric Hair Brashes, $1.00, $1.50, $2.00, $2.60, $8.00: Flesh 
Brushes, $3.00 : Dr. Scott’s Electric Tooth Brushes, 60 cents : Insoles, 

60 cents : CHEST PROCTECTOR, $3.00 : ELECTRIC HAIR 
CURLER, 60 cents; LUNG AND NERVE INVIGORA- 
TORS, $5.00 and $10.00. 

A RRFAT CIIPPPCQ ^ Good Live Canvassing Agent WANTED in 
I OUuul.00 your town for these splendidly advertised and 
best selling goods in the market. LIBERAL PAT, QUICK SALES. Satisfac- 
tion guaranteed. Apply at once. GEO. A. SCOTT, 842 Broadway, N. Y. 




stitute, Buffalo, N. Y., has afforded a 
vast experience in nicely adapting" and 
thoroughly testing remedies for the 
cure of woman’s peculiar maladies. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is the outgrowth, or result, of this 
great and valuable experience. Thou- 
sands of testimonials received from pa- 
tients and from physicians who have 
tested it in the more aggravated and 
obstinate cases which had baffled their 
i skill, prove it to be the most wonderful 
remedy ever devised for the relief and 
! cure of suffering women. It is not rc- 
1 commended as a “cure-all,” but as a 
1 most perfect Speeifio for vroman’s 
I peculiar ailments. 

As a powerful, invigorating 
tonic it imparts strength to the whole 
system, and to the uterus, or womb and 
its appendages, in particular. For over- 
worked, “worn-out,” “run-down,” de- 
bilitated teachers, milliners, dressmak- 
ers, seamstresses, “shop-girls,” house- 
keepers, nursing mothers, and feeble 
women generally. Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription is the greatest earthly boon, 
being unequalled as an appetising cor- 
dial and restorative tonic. It promotes 
digestion and assimilation of food, cures 
nausea, weakness of stomach, indiges- 
tion, bloating and eructations of gas. 

As a soothing and strengthen- 
ing nervine, “ Favorite Prescription ” 
is unequalled and is invaluable in allay- 
ing and subduing nervous excitability, 
irritability, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
teria, spasms and other distressing, nerv- 
ous symptoms commonly attendant upon 
functional and organic disease of the 
womb. It induces refreshing sleep and 
relieves mental anxiety and despond- 
ency. . ^ 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is a legitimate medicine, 
carefully compounded by an experienc- 
ed and skillful physician, and adapted 
to woman’s delicate organization. It is 
purely vesretabie in its composition and 


perfectly harmless In its effects in any 
condition of the system. 

“Favorite Prescription” is a 
positive cure for the most compli- 
cated and obstinate cases of ieucorrhea, 
or “ whites,” excessive flowing at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or falling 
of the womb, weak b£ ,ck, “ female weak- 
ness,” ante version, ref reversion, bearing- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
flammation and ulceration of the womb, 
inflammation, pain and tenderness in 
ovaries, accompanied with internal beat. 

In pregnancy, “Favorite Prescrip- 
tion” is a “mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of stomach and other 
distressing symptoms common to that 
condition. If its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestation, it so prepares 
the system for delivery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the suiferings of that try- 
ing ordeal. 

“ Favorite Prescription,” whei* 
taken in connection with tlio use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Purgative Pellets (Little Liver PiilsL 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dig. 
cases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tlie Wrong Disease.— 
JIany times women call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
hero or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for which ho prescribes his pills and 
potions, assuming them to be such, 
when, in reality, they arc all only s?ywp- 
toms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
largo bills aro made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, wrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the came would 
have entirely removed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

‘^Favorite Prescription” is tho 
only medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee, 
from the manufacturers, that it will 
give satisfaction in every case, or money 
will be refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle-wrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many years. 
Liarge bottles (1(X) doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. 

li^“Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 

World’s Dispensary Medical Association, 
no, Main sxBjaicx, buffalo, a. k 



Through Trains between CHICAGO, PEORIA, STi LOUIS and 

DENVER. KANSAS CITY. ST. PAUL. , 

OMAHA. ATCHISON. MINNEAPOLI 

COUNCIL BLUFFS. ST .JOSEPH. pUBUQUE. 

‘lOl 


TOPEKA. 


DES M( 


Trains to and from NEW YORK, BOSTON, PHILADELPHIA and all points ‘'AST, connect v 
Through Trains via the Burlington Route to and from 

SAN FRANCISCO. PORTLAND, CITY OF MEXICO, 
AND ALL RESORTS IN COLORADO AND ON THE PACIFIC COAjS 


The only rairoad west of Chicago having [a DOUBLE TRf OK to the Mississippi River, 
only line running THROUGH SLEEPERS between CHICAGO AND DENVER, and rbetween CHICA 
AND TOPEKA. 


For tickets, rates, maps, or further information concerning the Burlington Route, apply to Tic 
Agents of its own or connnecting lines. 

HENRY B. STONE, PAUL MORTON, 

General Manager. CHICAGO. General Passenger and Ticket Age 


THE TUXEDO SUIT. 

A comple costume of original design, novel, elegant 
and graceful, consisting of Cap, Blouse, Skirt, an 
Sash, Full Fashion, knitted of the Finest Worstei 
Materials, made in a variety of Colorings, and ii 
Patterns to match throughout. 

From its texture it is especially adapted for 

Lawn Tennis, Yachting, Rowing, Gymna^ 

sium, the Mountains, and ail Athletic 

and Out-door Sports for Ladies 

and Children. 

Send for Descriptive Circular. | 

These suite for sale only by / 

JAMES McOREERY & OO., ' 

Broadway and Eleventh Street, New YorJ 


5 


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